Quill
by crazylizzie
Summary: A repost... for those who have not read it, the story disregards DH entirely, meaning Deathly Hollows, but it is a D/Hr, meaning Draco and Hermione. It was written after HBP, so all spoilers up to that point. It is an alternate past.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This is a repost... because fanfic took it down and there have been requests for it to be added once more. I hope you all enjoy. I hope fanfic does not take it down again. I hope I am uploading the corrected version :O)**_

_Disclaimer: I, of course, own nothing of this, at all; well, okay, maybe the idea, but that is the limit of ownership. The rest, including the most delectable and sexy Draco (and Severus), belong to Mme. Rowling _

"…_just as though the taboo were never anything but the means of cursing gloriously whatever it forbids" G. Bataille_

He sees her haloed in the dim torchlight; her head, heavy with curls caught at her neck, tilts over an endless amount of parchment. The quill in her hand twirls first one way and then another.

The library is quiet, empty, as it normally is this time of year. Darkness blends with the limited light of the torches, casting shadows and moments of blackness within the rows of books.

The only sound is the movement of air.

A curl falls in front of her and a daft movement of her hand, born of endless movements before, tucks the rampant hair behind one ear. His own hand, aristocratic with long thin fingers, balls into a fist and absently rubs at a spot on his chest, just under his chin.

Once upon a time she would have felt him standing against the door. She would have looked up; something like panic would have fallen across her features before she recognized the form. Then she would have tensed. Her quill would have stopped, her eyes would have narrowed slightly, and her chin would have risen.

Whether it's because so many years have passed or because she no longer fears very much, or perhaps because she feels safe in this place, she does not look over, nor does she feel his presence.

She continues to stare into the shadows in front of her.

So his tall form, clad entirely in black, leans against the door and watches the woman in front of him. He traces her face with his eyes; the smooth cheek, the slightly pouted lower lip, the delicate but always firm chin. Always so very firm.

He realizes he is rubbing his chest and drops his hand, purposefully making it relax at his side.

He stands for a moment longer before moving away from the door, stirring the air, but so very quietly that when Hermione finally recognizes a presence by the slight flickering of the torches, there is no one there and she hears nothing.

Like his old Head of House, Draco Malfoy moves through the darkened passageways with a quietness and stealth only learned out of necessity.

The shadows welcome him. The moonlight catches and holds the gleam of his hair, a juxtaposition of light and dark, muted though, softened by something long passed and no longer talked about.

Movements are minimal, his hands and arms by his side, his stride long, eating up the stone, but casual, graceful, almost feline, assured.

Gaining the entrance to the Main Hall he pauses, smoothing the black robe with a hand decorated with a blood red stone and, with the same control that he used in the library, the same silence, he walks into the Hall.

He is one of the first to arrive to the meeting; the only other two occupants are Remus Lupin and his wife, Nymphadora Tonks Lupin, who are talking quietly between themselves. Lupin, always aware of his immediate surroundings, looks up at the approach of the dark figure.

Draco smiles slightly, a smile that no longer holds malice, but rather an old thought, one of shared experiences and lifetimes lived in one summer and winter.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lupin," Draco greets, voice quiet, smooth tones.

The torches around them flicker from his words.

Remus smiles in return and where there was once a tinge of dislike, there is none of that now, just recognition. Not friendly – no, never friendly – but with some of the same sort of familiarity, of experiences long passed but never quite forgotten.

Silver eyes turn towards the thin woman at Remus' side, her hair, as usual, bubble gum pink.

"Cousin," she says.

Draco inclines his head, smiling briefly before taking a seat down the table from them. There was a time when he would have been horrified to acknowledge the connection between himself and Nymphadora, out loud or otherwise. But that was before. Now he recognizes her for the relative she is, for the past.

Always the past.

Remus and Tonks continue to talk between themselves while Draco leans into the high backed chair, watching as other members of the Ministry, the Department of Magical Defense, and the Department of Magical Education slowly start to make their way towards the high table.

Headmistress McGonagall walks into the hall, inclining her head slightly as her eyes meet his, blatant relief on her face.

Draco responds in kind, though his features are arranged into a polite mask. He is there on her request. Hers and the current Minster of Magic, and although he is – for all apparent purposes – a guest, he is still Draco Malfoy, of the Malfoy Family, and there is more than one pair of eyes that look at him with something akin to fear and apprehension.

He carefully ignores them as he has for the past ten years, keeping his body relaxed, hands placed on the sides of the chair, palms upwards.

His wand is within his robes and the gesture of trust is apparent in his empty hands.

Only when the Minister of Magic himself walks in with his redheaded wife does Draco stiffen slightly. Though their animosity has long since vanished in the heat of a war and the years have changed them, they are still, and always will be, opposites and repel one another by their nature alone. But there is the past and when the Minister of Magic comes to the table Draco meets the emerald green eyes of Harry Potter without any emotion, though something still tightens in his gut at the hero of the Wizarding world.

They are not friends, but they, like so many, are forced allies who have grown to respect one another.

It is why Draco is there.

It is why Harry Potter asked him to be there.

Harry and Ginny Potter sit down. There are only a few more to arrive but only one more for Draco and he feels a thrum along the nerves of his spine. His eyes, deceptively lazy, scan the entrance to the hall.

She knows he is there this time, must have known it, for as soon as her slim form enters the hall, her eyes immediately seek out his own.

A past, and in the past there were moments, decisions made that should have never been made, paths that should have never been travelled or should never have existed in the first place.

He sees it, the liquid darkness around the edges of her eyes, along the edges of her person. She flows with it, a tide, towards him. It pulls on the very same thing that tinges his person.

She is the one that looks away.

The meeting begins.

It is simple, what the Department of Magical Defense wants to do, a variation of the already existing Defense Against the Dark Arts class, just slightly different, slightly more…dark.

It's been coming for some time, since the end of the war, since the overthrow of the Magic of Ministry, since times changed.

Things are not what they once were.

Some say innocence lost is innocence never to be regained.

The Wizarding world knows the truth of the statement, though some refuse to see it, and others refuse to even acknowledge innocence at all.

Draco listens with a slightly amused look on his face as those around him argue the new curriculum, as well as the need for a more open-minded society. He doesn't say anything, doesn't voice his own opinion. In truth, he has very little opinion on the matter.

Moody is the first to break, bringing a large fist down on the table, his magical eye roaming wildly. "You are going to teach these children Dark Arts! You are going to let them dabble in something none of you understand."

The Headmistress opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by the clear tones of her Gryffindor Head of House. "They are already learning," the voice quietly says.

Her voice reminds Draco of rivers in the middle of deep woods, casting shadows from a barely apparent moon.

Moody's eye swirls and lands on Hermione. Her face is calm, poised, and she meets the eye without flinching. That curl, always the same curl, falls from behind her ear and her hand pushes it backwards.

Draco's hand twitches into a fist.

"She is correct," Headmistress McGonagall says. Tension slowly ebbs away at the calm and serious tones of the Professor and Head of Hogwarts. "The children, children born of those who fought in the last war, already know of magic which was once considered dark."

"Which is still considered dark," Moody corrects, but not loud enough to interrupt.

The Headmistress ignores him and continues. "The line is no longer set in stone Alastor, you must realize that as Department Head."

It is a very Slytherin way of keeping Moody placated and it catches Draco by surprise, looking on his former Professor with a slight smirk marring the right side of his face.

"There are parents that will not like it," another voice chimes in.

Draco moves his eyes away from the Headmistress to look on the woman who spoke. Her face is bright, open, and a name comes to him; Susan Bones, now, Susan Longbottom, currently head of the Department of Magical Education.

He has never paid much attention to the Hufflepuff, never paid much attention to Hufflepuffs in general, especially back in school. Nonetheless, he finds himself looking at a very pretty, very intelligent looking woman, her reddish hair tinged with silver and folded into a long plait down her back, a gold ring twinkling in the torchlight.

If Draco was still the boy he'd once been, he would have sneered at her when she caught him looking, made a disabilitating remark, watch in pleasure as she flustered and stumbled.

He is not that boy.

His lips rise slightly in a half acknowledgement.

It is enough for her to blush slightly and look away.

_Once a Hufflepuff, always a Hufflepuff_.

He sneers inwardly.

"The parents must be aware of what is taking place," Ginny says, her position next to Harry Potter powerful. All eyes, including Draco's, turn towards her.

She continues, leaning lightly forward over her protruding belly, "How can anyone not see what is right in front of them?"

"Some do, some don't want to admit it, some believe it's flat out not true." Remus supplies, his face lined. "The Headmistress is right, the line is blurred."

"And will continue to be blurred," a new voice says, this one belonging to a tall black man, the current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

The Headmistress nods pertly. "It's true. If we cannot address this now, if we _refuse _to address this now, there will be problems in the future."

Draco watches the ongoing debate with slight detachment. It doesn't concern him, not really. He doesn't care if the decision for the curriculum is passed or not. He has no children, doesn't plan on having children, and his presence in the meeting is not for debating the good or ill of teaching a child a certain amount of black magic.

His presence is in case the curriculum is passed.

After an hour, the decision is made because Remus Lupin finally looks over at the Minister of Magic and asks his opinion.

It annoys Draco but years of being annoyed by one Harry Potter does not mean much and he turns his head to see what the dark haired man says.

Really, it's about what he expects.

"I think we don't have a choice," Harry says, looking every person fully in the face, meeting their eyes before moving on to the next person.

There are scars, they all have them, Harry does too, though the scar that once made him famous is no longer. Other things make him famous now.

Harry's eyes linger on Hermione and a noticeable softening occurs around his eyes, the fine lines there moving upwards in recognition of their long history. He speaks to the woman, the friend. "I think what Hermione said was right. They are already learning and instead of ignoring it, hoping it will go away, the better approach is to meet and help define it." He paused, scanning the room then, "I think it's the only way," he says quietly.

Draco is amused at the way Potter manipulates the room, the crowd. He uses his position, his past, _who_ he is, and not for the second time Draco sees very Slytherin qualities in a Gryffindor.

So the vote is cast, and the decision to create a curriculum of Dark Arts is made.

If Draco were still the darling of the Malfoy family, the Slytherin prince, he would have smiled in satisfaction, in triumph. As it were, he has nothing to smile about. He has no desire to immerse himself back into the world he'd almost drowned in ten years prior. He has no desire to help out the Ministry of Magic or any of its departments.

He is doing this because the Headmistress once forgave him for a mistake he'd made as that Slytherin prince.

And for the witch who sits at the end of the table, quill twirling once more between her fingers as she listens to the deciding vote.

"I don't agree with this Minerva, I want to let you know," Moody says, voice hoarse, clearly dismayed if his roving eye is any indication.

"I am quite aware of that Alastor, and as such I will want your help with this."

"But my duties…"

The Headmistress puts up a hand, "I understand your duties as head of your department, and I am not requesting you take over this, rather, your input and your critical eye will be needed in the future."

There is a pause and Draco feels the tension in the rooms rise.

"Who are you going to have head this?" Remus asks, always the brave one, always the one to cross that boundary.

The Headmistress opens her mouth but the Minister of Magic cuts her off.

"I have decided," Harry says, voice smooth, "Along with Professor McGonagall, the best to head this program is Professor Granger and," he pauses, for effect, the perfect politician, "Mr. Malfoy."

There is a moment of silence where the only thing heard in the room is the flickering flame of the torches.

Then voices erupt.

Draco is not interested in anyone's reactions, not anyone's but the woman who, for the first time since she'd seated herself, looks over and locks eyes with him.

Her eyes are bright, widening slightly, and Draco realizes no one told her of his role in this.

_Bloody fucking perfect._

His hand clenches but does not rise.

But some things never change and he allows a smirk to play along the right side of his mouth. Anyone else would have missed it, anyone without their past, without the swirling shadow of connection, they would have missed it.

She does not.

Her chin, that stubborn chin, rises slightly.

She looks away and the smirk on Draco's face grows so that a grin, briefly, oh so very briefly, graces his features, before it too falls away.

Moody is going off about the complete insanity of the plan, several other less important individuals, clearly distressed, raising their voices with his, and for a moment that part of Draco, that small part that is still a Malfoy, the core of his essence, revels in the chaos in front of him.

Until the Headmistress claps her hand once, twice, and the room falls silent.

"I understand all of your anxiety; however, events from ten years ago require the participation of Mr. Malfoy and Professor Granger." The Headmistress glances briefly at Draco.

Draco inclines his head in a slight agreement.

"I don't have a problem with Hermione heading it; we all know she will do a most excellent job, but…" Remus says. His voice is tinged with worry.

Draco's face is polite of course, but only because he has spent years honing a control that could rival Severus Snape's. Inside he feels nothing but irritation for the once werewolf.

Remus was there, on the sidelines, not part of it, but he was there, he saw what it was he and Hermione had done, had been forced to do out of necessity and grief, along with numerous other reasons. Had he forgotten? Or had he grown so comfortable in his wholly light world of marriage, family, and not being a werewolf, that he had carefully put it out of his mind.

"What are you going to get out of this boy?" Moody suddenly asks, swerving to look at Draco, clear dislike on his features.

Draco knew the question was coming, and had thought previously on how to answer, deciding the truth was the best course of action.

"Nothing," he replies and his voice is dark, cold, indifferent. It's the first time he's spoken and several at the table shiver to hear it.

The tone does not help the feelings in the room as voices raise again, Moody, of course, the loudest among them.

"Then why?" The question is asked, the voice rising effortlessly and without volume over all the others, silencing the cacophony just as effectively as the Headmistress' claps had earlier.

Draco looks over at Hermione and is not surprised to see genuine curiosity there. So many things have changed, so very many things, but the curiosity, the questions, are still there.

For some reason it comforts him.

For some reason it soothes the irritation sparkling along his nerves.

Draco is honest. "Because of my life debt to you, and to Professor McGonagall."

No one knows about his life debts, no one, and the cacophony begins again, but Draco ignores them, continuing to share a look with Hermione.

She has forgotten, probably through disuse more than anything, how to completely hide her feelings and he sees them, swirling in the dark brown eyes; curiosity, yes, always curiosity, questions, irritation of her own, and under that, underlying it and supporting it, a growing fear, a growing panic.

That piece of hair falls from behind her ear.

A hand comes up, tucking it back.

The place on his chest flares to life.

He sees red, hazed red, filling, colouring around his vision.

He looks away.

The conversation continues to circle around him but he is focused on the memory. The haze brings it, the leap of flames in a fireplace, a white feathered quill revolving around and around, first one way and then another. A piece of hair from the hastily arranged knot at the top of her head, him leaning over, the weight of it, the look of it in the orange and yellow flickering light, calling his hand.

She had startled, catching sight of his hand out of the corner of her eye, and then stilled, looking up at him as he pushed the piece behind her ear. She'd smelled of mint, of tea, of something flowery that he learned later, a long time later, was lavender.

"It's decided then," the Headmistress announces, pulling him from the memory, from the red haze. She turns and pierces Draco with her signature look. "Mr. Malfoy, if I could speak with you before you leave."

Draco inclines his head and then watches as everyone rises and slowly leaves the hall, voice falling and moving across one another.

The Minster of Magic stops in front of Draco. Green meets silver once more and Harry slowly nods. "Thank you for doing this Draco," he says quietly.

A lot has changed. Harry Potter has changed, Ginny Weasley, now Ginny Potter, has changed, her small arm curled into that of the Minister of Magic, belly stretching the robes in indication of the newest arrival to the family.

They have grown, developed, become different people.

But some things never change.

Draco smirks. "You owe me Potter," he says.

Draco sees Ginny's hold tighten on her husband's arm, but Harry just smiles and nods. "I do Draco."

Harry Potter, Minister of Magic, turns with his wife.

Draco watches his old enemy leave, then scans the rest of the Hall.

In the years following the war Draco became an honest man, at least with himself, so he acknowledges the disappointment for what it is when he sees, during his exchange with Potter, Hermione has slipped from the Hall.

He wanted to speak with her.

If just to say something inconsequential.

Or even cruel.

But she left, perhaps knowing, perhaps remembering, and he is the last to rise from his chair, following the rigid spine of the Headmistress.

Once seated in the Headmistress' quarters, teacup balanced in his hand, black clad legs stretched out in front of him, Draco watches in ill-concealed amusement as his old Professor tries to find words to explain what is worrying her.

"It will be fine Headmistress," Draco finally says in the silence, sipping at his tea, watching the older witch's features move from surprise then relief.

She sits down in the chair opposite him, pouring herself a cup. "You don't believe working together will be a problem? I understand you have not spoken to each other since young Ron Weasley's funeral."

Nothing outwardly indicates the sudden clench of stomach muscles, the spasm of nerves.

Draco takes another sip of his tea and then places it on the table between them.

He catches the Headmistress' eye and holds it. "I'm sure you know that Professor Granger is first and foremost a professional, intent on teaching children, intent on creating this program in order to help future wizards and witches. That's why, if I'm not mistaken, you did not feel it necessary to tell her of my involvement." Draco does not miss the look of guilt on her face but ignores it to continue. "You will find the same professionalism from me."

The Headmistress slowly nods. "I thought as much, but Severus was… not worried, of course, but when replying to my inquiries in his last letter, he sounded cautious."

Draco allows the irritation to show, for a moment, just a moment, but the Headmistress sees it.

She waves her hand, "He is just concerned for you."

"Of course," Draco says, moving the annoyance to the side, to be dealt with later. "But I can assure you, whatever Professor Granger's and my relationship consisted of during those days was a result of the nature of the time and has been effectively left in those days. We, the Wizarding world, has moved on Headmistress, and I, as well as Professor Granger I'm sure, have moved on as well. We've all changed Headmistress."

It is enough for his former Professor and soon Draco is released from her presence, once more walking the dark passageways of his old school, making his way towards the front entrance and towards the moonless night.

But a small voice, a voice he recognizes as that of his honest self, whispers in the shadows.

_But some things never change._


	2. Chapter 2

While she is unknowingly being discussed in the Headmistress' quarters, Hermione Granger sits at her desk staring out towards the Forbidden Forest. Fire leaps in the fireplace and the room flickers with the colour of flames.

Creating shadows.

Just like the moon does.

There are thoughts, somewhere close, revolving, circling, but she can't grasp them.

So she stares.

Clarity. It's the something that's missing, the something she has spent the last ten years trying to find, trying to discover, trying to maintain. Not a reason, not an explanation.

Clarity.

But in the darkness, in the shadows, nothing twinkles and nothing is clear.

She'd learned that. Ten years prior.

Hands support her chin as she leans forward, staring out the window.

Quills, parchment, and books are spread out on the desk in front of her. She's been creating, gathering notes, parchments and schedules, putting together the curriculum Minerva requested months prior.

It's a good idea.

Hermione sees the differences Minerva had spoken of, sees the shadows along the lines of "good magic." She understands the need to move the line, to move the criteria, to adapt to a world changing for the first time in hundreds of years. She relishes the thought of having a hand in that change, though the fear is there, underneath, lingering. But fear is nothing; it is something she can push away, compartmentalize, the panic stamped down with a firm foot.

But she hadn't known everything.

_Why did no one tell me?_

Her mind screams it, her nerves vibrate with the question, though nothing escapes on her breath and she doesn't move.

She'd felt him, felt when he Apparated, a tugging at her chest. But, not having felt it in such a long time, because of distance, because of time, she hadn't realized what it was.

Not at first.

But it was there, when she walked into the Hall, a compulsion to look up, to meet his eyes.

Those quicksilver eyes.

_Why did no one tell me?_

Not only financially. Words, meaning.

Together. Creating this program, this thought, salvaging.

A sliver of shadow works its away from the building. She catches her breath to see it, the glint of whiteness on the otherwise black canvas. Distinct.

She watches him, head coming up from her hands, hands falling, clasping together tightly in her lap.

She refuses to acknowledge the flare in her chest.

Her gaze traces the lines of his figure, tracks his movements in the darkness, across the lawn, to the gates. She blinks only when she can no longer see the gleam of his hair catching in the dim light.

She knows when he Disapparates because the pressure on her chest eases, replaced with a throb somewhere at the base of her spine.

And then comes the anger.

_Why did no one tell me?_

Because not everything changes.

Hermione wraps herself in black robes, halfway to the Headmistress' quarters before she realizes what she is doing. Anger nips at her heals, but the dark is cool and she slows, the quick pace falling back into a walk, and then a stumble.

She has nothing to say to the Headmistress. Not really. What is there to say? How can she explain something she has no clarity on, that she had no explanation for?

Instead of turning towards the Headmistress' office, Hermione turns the other way, towards the dungeons, towards a deeper darkness, an area of more shadows. Her step is quiet, not silent, but quiet, and the deeper she goes the more her breath puffs out in the dimness of torches.

It's frigid in the dungeon; the Christmas holiday means very few venture the passageways. Even the current head of the Slytherin House prefers his quarters and the leaping flames in his fireplace to the coldness of the dungeons.

She remembers, with a particular kind of longing a time when Professor Snape still taught, when the dungeons and the potions classroom were always alight with torches, and though not warmer, more alive, containing an essence.

Hermione stops in front of the potions classroom and hesitates only a moment before pushing against the smooth wood, stepping into darkness.

She closes the heavy door behind her.

The click of hinges echoes in the room and then dies.

The blackness, the silence, is complete.

She stands there and breathes in the absence of light, of presence.

The flick of her wand lights several torches and then a fire in the large fireplace. She moves with a lightness, hands lingering over scarred tables and stacked cauldrons, coming to stop in front of the fire.

The front of her face burns from the heat, just as her backside burns from the extreme cold.

If Harry could see her, right then, hands limp by her side, head tilted, eyes blank, he would not know her. If he discovered she found comfort in the potions classroom, in the smells there, the lingering presence of something past, his understanding of her would waver, fall, break.

The truth is, she loves potions, loves the subtly, the beauty of it, the nature of its magic. Once she thought of pursuing potions as a career, becoming a Potions Mistress, working in the private sector or even teaching one day.

But things happen, changes are forced, paths taken which were never supposed to have existed in the first place.

Hermione stands in the classroom until her feet ache and a cold burning in her belly tells her there is tea ready in her room. She flicks her wand and the fire disappears, another flick and the torches gutter out.

She makes her way to the exit by feel alone, eyes blind in the absolute blackness, moving easily between the tables, between the cauldrons and then out to the passageway, her steps quiet on the stones.

When she is once more in her room, hand curled around a steaming cup of tea, she remembers because she can't help but remember, because something wakes that has slept for so long.

Memories.

It was hot that night, brutally hot, the Burrow stifling in the heat and the over abundance of people. She was sitting outside on one of the many benches left over from Bill and Fluer's wedding, this one under a large oak tree, thinking on the wedding, on the newly wedded couple, on Harry and Ginny, on Ron, on what was to come, all of it underlined with a fear. The fear was normal, an everyday thing, something she constantly lived with, something she always felt along her nerves, at the base of her spine, in her belly.

It was as normal to her as breathing.

She'd looked up at the sound, thinking it was Ron bringing her a butterbeer, a smile all ready on her face, thanks on her lips. But instead of the tall red head with the easy grin and the easy stroll, she saw a ghost of a body, white face, white hair, glowing in the moon.

The blood dripping down his cheeks had looked black.

She'd run to him, hands coming out to try to stop the blood from pouring down his face, as she yelled in panic, as he lashed out.

His eyes had not sees her, whirling with madness.

Later he would tell her what he'd witnessed and her stomach would revolt, emptying itself, his hand cool on her overheated neck, but at that moment, his hands clawing at her face, she didn't know. She only knew that whatever he was seeing was causing him to scream, to fight.

The screams were inhuman.

The fighting a desperate struggle of survival.

Everyone had rushed out of the house.

Minerva's presence had saved his life that night, combined with a certain amount of loud shouting and unheard cursing on Hermione's part. If Minerva had not taken control, if Hermione had not insisted on logic, he would have died at the end of several wands held steady by several different hands.

It had taken almost ten days for him to recover to the point where questions were given answers.

It had taken almost a month before he was able to walk.

The wind at her window whips her out of the memory, a shuddering of glass and the flicker of flame from the sudden gust.

The tea in her hand forgotten, she absently rubs her chest, the spot right under her chin.

She is given the briefest of warnings before a head pops up in her Floo. She smiles to see the familiar face of Ginny peaking outwards through the green flames.

"Hermione," Ginny says, her voice warm, comfortable. "You snuck out of the Hall before I got a chance to speak with you."

"Sorry," Hermione says, "I had some things I had to take care of."

There is a pause and Hermione can clearly see concern and curiosity playing on her friend's features. "Can I come through?" Ginny finally asks.

Hermione doesn't want her to. She doesn't want to keep up appearances, doesn't want to use the energy. She is tired, her mind aches. Something else she doesn't want to identify aches.

"Of course," she says.

And then Ginny is there, stepping out of the fireplace, hands dusting off the Floo powder, unconsciously caressing her belly as she does so.

"Tea?" Hermione asks, already pouring as the younger woman sits down across from her.

Ginny takes the tea with a thankful smile.

Hermione watches her. She notices the glow of oncoming motherhood, the glow of a woman well loved, taken care of. She looks very much like Molly.

Hermione waits in silence, waiting, knowing to wait.

Ginny finally looks up from her tea. "I didn't know," she says quietly.

Hermione has a moment; a moment where she is going to deny everything, where she is going to say nothing is wrong, that she has no idea what Ginny is talking about.

She decides to only deny a part. "It only makes sense for him and I to work together, after all, it's our fault there is a need in the first place."

Hermione doesn't add that she is terrified at the possibility, that she is angry that no one told her, that she is suspicious of the reasons behind it all.

Hermione doesn't tell Ginny Potter that she is furious with Ginny's husband.

The years of their friendship has created a familiarity with one another. However, Hermione has long since moved into a world she alone occupies and Ginny does not see everything. She only sees a witch with big brown eyes, hair pulled away from her face, slim to the point of being too slim, with an aura around her of extreme weight.

If she sees more than that she is no longer able to express it.

For Ginny, like so many others, has purposefully moved away from what darkness there was ten years ago, and what darkness there is now. Ginny Potter lives wholly in the world of light, of day, of motherhood, of love.

Something like disgust creates a shattering effect along the underside of Hermione's ribcage.

She keeps her hands still in her lap, her eyes on her friend.

They change topics.

"So, when should we expect you for Christmas?" Ginny asks.

A spot of lint on the chair catches Hermione's eye and she flicks it with a finger. Not looking up she answers, "I have a few things to do here still, a meeting with Minerva tomorrow, so the day after. I will need to stop by Diagon Alley and I'll probably go into Muggle London as well." The lint is gone and Hermione folds her long fingers together. She looks up at the other woman, "There are some things I thought of for Lily, Muggle things."

The statement is not a challenge.

Or perhaps it is.

Ginny nods, setting her teacup down. "She misses her Aunt Hermione," she states quietly.

It is a gentle reprimand.

Hermione is silent for a moment, but just a moment. She nods. "I know I haven't been around, but I was working with Professor Goldstein so he can get everything ready for after break. He is finding it hard to adjust to the potions lab after working in corporate labs."

Ginny nods, "I understand. We'll enjoy your company for the holidays because I know you won't have any time after you start working on this project with Malfoy."

Hermione barely contains the shiver along her arms at the sound of his name.

There is another pause.

"You could have had the potions position, Minerva said as much to Harry," Ginny breaks the pause.

Hermione looks over at her friend. There is concern, but underneath it all, a wicked intelligence and Hermione wonders, not for the first time, how much Ginny knows, how much she'd known.

"I don't have the knowledge anymore, and I like teaching transfiguration." Hermione lies easily.

Ginny nods her head, setting her teacup down, "Of course." She scoots to the edge of the chair before levelling herself upwards. Her hands smooth her robes, again stroking the child growing within her.

Hermione sees and feels a sharp stab, a pain so searing for a moment it leaves her breathless. But when Ginny looks up she sees nothing amiss in her friend and she gives her goodbyes, stepping into the Floo and disappearing from Hermione's rooms.

Hermione sits and stares at the flame for a moment, the dancing oranges, the yellows, the heart of dark blue.

A hand brushes the stray curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

She won't sleep tonight, not tonight, and after staring at the flames, after fighting the memories, she stands up, grabbing her cloak once more.

She knows the passageways of the school better than she ever did as a student, and she knew them well then. But now, there are grooves in the stone, pathways she has worn down the last several years. While students are present she rarely walks the main passageways. She is not another Professor Snape, out to find those in the halls and unmercifully take away points.

Hermione walks because in the last ten years she has not been able to sleep a full night, because while the rest of the school rests her mind, her blood, won't stop flowing.

Because memories chase her.

Because in the darkest hour of the night there flares a brilliant blaze of heat, on her chest, right under her chin.

The portraits are the only witnesses. They watch her, a slim figure dressed fully in black, white hands and a white face cloaked in the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

The house of Severus Snape is small, at least, from the outside. Situated on the outskirts of Muggle London, to anyone that passes, Muggle or not, the home is like all the others; not new but not old, somewhere in between. Comfortable.

When Draco carefully Apparates into the alley, the air is frigid and the moon is hidden by a thickening layer of clouds. It smells of ice and snow, the coldest winter in the last ten years.

He moves easily towards the back door and without a sound lets himself in. The kitchen is empty and he barely glances around, walking quietly towards the library at the front of the house.

His former professor is sitting at his desk, dark hair falling around his face, hiding it. The sound of quill on parchment combines and twists with the sound of flames in the fireplace.

Severus does not look up on the other man's entrance, though Draco knows his presence was detected as soon as he Apparated.

Once a paranoid always a paranoid.

Draco sits on the couch in front of the fireplace, waiting. He has learned patience but only through death, only through absolute necessity. It still does not come easily to him.

He uses the time to test himself.

After many long moments, Severus finally puts down his quill and turns in his chair to look at the younger man.

Draco feels the gaze but does not look over towards him, staring at the flames. Always staring at the flames.

"It was passed." A statement, not a question.

Draco looks over. He meets the dark eyes and notices, with surprise, that the older man is actually looking older. He wonders why he had not noticed before.

"It did."

"And Miss Granger?" The voice which asks is level, smooth, giving away nothing, but Draco knows and does not miss the slight twist, the ever so slight twist, to Severus' lip.

"Is Miss Granger," Draco replies.

The old professor and his one time student stay silent, weighing the air around them.

It is a game, a game which Draco loses.

He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the smooth nature of it.

"She didn't know," he replies after a moment. "No one told her of my involvement."

"Your involvement was limited to a financial one but two days ago," Severus reminds him. Now that Severus has won the game his voice is warmer.

"Two days is long enough to inform her," Draco retorts and there is something of the old Draco in his words, in his tone.

After a night of keeping emotion out of his every gesture and movement it comes through with force now.

"You could retract your involvement, once more limiting it to the financial side."

Draco again pulls a hand through his hair, fist rubbing at the point on his chest before falling to his side. "I have given my word."

Severus snorts. Draco does not need to look over at the older man to know Severus is amused at his expense. But because he does not look over he does not see the older man's gaze narrow when Draco touches his chest with a fist.

It has been several years since Draco has forgotten himself enough to show signs of his compulsion in front of anyone, even in front of his old professor and the only man he truly trusts.

Severus changes the subject.

"How was our most illustrious Minister of Magic?"

Draco smirks, "Toting around a pregnant wife." He shakes his head, hair now loosened by his hand swirling into his face. "They are as bad as the Weasleys."

"Mmm," Severus responds in kind.

"But, family aside, he knows what he's doing, he's not a complete bloody fool. Almost acted like a Slytherin tonight." It was a compliment. Of sorts.

"Was there much opposition?"

Draco shrugs, leaning back into the couch, "The usual, an overly paranoid freak we know as Moody, a couple of lesser individuals, but it didn't even have to be put to a vote, not with Potter backing it."

"I suspect you are correct." Severus rises form his chair at the desk and flicks his hand, a tray of tea things appearing in front of Draco along with the table they settle on.

He sits himself in the chair across from the couch.

They are silent.

Draco watches the flames. Severus watches him.

It is a testament to the state of the younger man's mind that he doesn't notice the intense gaze of the other. But his mind moves away from the room, the library, the present.

It remembers moments. Stolen moments, liquid bathed in red, thoughts colored in shadow, in grays.

Brilliant white snow stark in contrast to the death of night.

Fingers curl into fists, the ring on his right hand winks and snaps in the light of the fire.

Blood against the white of his skin.

The feeling, the blood compulsion, it tears at him, worse than it has in years, like he never learned to block it, like he never learned to move it, not aggressively, but gently, cradling it, placing it down, oh so very gently, then slamming the door in its face.

The eyes that finally look up and meet Severus' are stark, silver warring with things he has forgotten, things which he still does not quite remember but which are coming.

Slowly.

Creeping.

He blinks and they are blank once more.

He reaches for his tea, holding it between his hands, warmth smooth along his palms.

"When will you begin?" The question breaks the silence.

Draco looks up, "After Christmas, after the break. She is teaching full time, and is House Head, so probably a limited amount of time at first. I prefer it actually. I still have the end results of those last two potions to write up and submit." He takes a sip of the dark liquid and then continues, "I have also been thinking about the implication of your _Recratius_."

Severus leans forward at this and soon they are immersed into a discussion of advanced potions, both men in their element.

It allows Draco to move away from the night's proceedings.

But not Severus, and though his mind easily moves with Draco's he watches his godson closely.

There is concern along the side of his eyes.

Draco chooses not to see it.

The first rays of morning lighten the sky by the time Severus excuses himself for bed, glancing down with a questioning eyebrow at Draco.

The younger man waves a hand at him, "I have a couple references I want to look up before turning in."

Draco patiently endures the slow scrutiny of his former professor and though Severus knows there is some under lining, something not seen, he cannot read Draco's perfectly blank expression.

Severus nods curtly and leaves the library for bed.

Draco does not move from his spot on the couch, listening to the silence, broken only by the slowly dying fire. A flick of his hand would build up the fire but the steady cooling of the room, cooling to an almost arctic nature, works well with Draco's thoughts.

In the cold, the brilliant flare of pain does not register quite as strongly.

_A complete and bloody fool._

The words circle around and around in his head. It's on the tip of his mind, an itch in his fingers, to owl the Headmistress and tell her he has withdrawn his participation, that he will financially back the newest decision but that will be the limit of his involvement.

He comes so close to writing it that he has motioned for a quill and parchment before he realizes what he is doing.

The quill in one hand.

The parchment in the other.

He stares at them. Seconds, minutes, a dying fire, passing time.

He opens his hands.

They fall to the floor.

Some things change. Some things never do.

A smirk curls the right side of Draco's mouth, eyes staring, cold as the air around him, flashing silver and ice in the gathering morning light.

A hunter. The smell of prey heavy in his mind, in his nostrils.

Recalling the look of fear in those brown eyes, the panic barely contained as she realized what his presence there meant. His mind flashing, quickly, effortlessly, replaying the entire scene over and over and over.

Stop.

Replaying that part again, seeing her reaction to her dearly loved friend's words, the slight narrowing of her gaze, and then that. That right there.

Her delicate fingers curling into a fist.

The smirk turns into a smile and the smile is fierce.

A trick of the shadows. A trick of the light coming in through the darkening curtains of the library.

A flash of teeth.

Stained red with blood.


	4. Chapter 4

_"…just as though the taboo were never anything but the means of cursing gloriously whatever it forbids" G Bataille_

It began in the summer, what ended in the winter. Six months, a cycle of time, from full day to full night.

Rather effective, that.

It started because she walked up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. Because when she knocked there was no answer. Because when she turned the knob on the door and looked in at his form, covered in a white sheet, he glowed from the early morning sun.

Because she could not stop being who she was.

And he no longer understood who he was.

Because the line blurred and how can things be set in stone if the stone no longer exists?

And so it started, long before either of them thought it did.

* * *

Hermione walks with purpose in her step, black cloak flying about her, booted feet sure on the snow covered sidewalk.

It's cold, white breath circling her head. She pulls her arms closer to her body and snuggles her chin within the warm folds of her red and gold scarf.

She is meeting Ginny for tea before heading back to the Burrow. Her holiday shopping is done, the packages easily miniaturized and placed in the pocket of her voluminous robes, the list of names secure in her other pocket.

Hermione likes Christmas, she likes the bustle of people, the smell of roasting chestnuts on the cold air, the overall feel of craziness, excitement, stress, but underlining it a beauty she sees very little the rest of the year.

Diagon Alley swirls with magic and the colors are bright and glorious, discernable to very few, though Hermione sees them with ease.

There is very little of the darkness she sees every day and that alone causes her to smile.

She is still fairly early for her meeting with Ginny, so when she passes Elemental Potions, a new store, she can't help but pause mid-step, slow, and then turn towards the deep entrance.

The door jingles when she walks in and a quick survey shows that, though there are people in every other store along the busy throughway, this one is all but empty.

A grizzled wizard pokes his head from the backroom to look at her with a glare before disappearing once more.

Though it's a new store, the inside appears as if it is a hundred years old; the jars and jars of materials dusty, though the contents themselves obviously, she leans a little closer, top of the line.

Unbeknownst to anyone but her former Head of House and current boss, Hermione brews all of her own potions and has, at the request of the same woman, been brewing potions for Poppy for the last several years. Her rooms extend to her very own lab.

It is a poor substitution, though Hermione tells herself it is perfect.

She is intently studying a jar of dragon nails when she feels more than hears the movement behind her.

"Professor Granger," the familiar voice says, dark tones, silkiness.

Hermione puts down the jar and slowly turns to face her former professor.

"Sir," she says quietly. It has been many years since she has seen him and notices the same as Draco had days earlier.

Severus smirks slightly, noticing the jar she is holding. "And what, Professor Granger, would you be doing with dragon nails?"

Hermione's chin raises several notches. She meets his dark eyes. Once those eyes intimidated her, now there is something familiar and surprisingly gentle in their depths.

Years ago, a war ago, she wouldn't have realized he was teasing her.

"Professor," she says, because she knows the title irritates him, "I'm just looking."

It takes a lot for her not to tell him exactly why she needs dragon nails. To not tell him about the new potions she has been playing with. To not let slip that, if successful, it will help with fevers, making them all but nonexistent.

But she doesn't because she knows it will only cause the man's smirk to grow and she so enjoys not giving him a reason to smirk.

But she can't help the smile tugging at her lips.

He sees it and his eyes narrow slightly. He changes tactics. "I heard about your newest _project_."

The word project is sneered but that is not the reason Hermione's smile falls away.

"With Mr. Malfoy," he finishes.

Her hand clenches into a fist and suddenly she is distinctly aware of just the two of them in the store. By sheer force of will she does not step backwards and she keeps her eyes trained on Severus' face.

"Yes," she responds, ridiculously happy her words do not come out sounding strange. They sound normal, slightly different, but it's been years since she has had a conversation with this man. Surely he will not notice. Surely.

Severus' face gives away nothing.

Hermione steps back a step. A small step, dust whirling around her robes.

"I was quite surprised when I heard the Ministry allowed it." His tall form turns and picks up another jar, this one with some herb Hermione can't quite identify. He looks at the contents, tilting them in the dim light.

She can breathe now that his incredibly intent gaze is not locking her in place.

She can also speak.

"I think it was just a matter of time, and the time has finally come." She shakes her head, curls of hair moving around her face. The movement is supposed to clear her mind, layer it with calmness. "There was no way people could continue to ignore it. Every child born since that time has experienced it, at least to an extent."

There is guilt in her words, underlining it, and Severus looks over at her, amusement once more obvious in his eyes. Amusement and something else.

"I told you of the consequences at the time." His words are a hot poker in her stomach but she doesn't flinch, meeting his eyes once more.

"I know you did."

"I told both of you," he adds.

She flinches at that.

Hermione looks away, past his head, towards the windows, towards the snow falling from the sky in scattered flakes of moisture.

She takes a deep breath. "Yes, you did," she finally responds and her words are more of a breath than anything else.

She gathers herself and looks back at her former professor.

"You did," she states again, stronger. "And now we are going to do something about it."

Those eyes, piercing, lancing her to the spot. She can't move.

"You will not be able to ignore it, Miss Granger, not at such close proximity."

The words make her want to cry. The tone makes her want to curl into a ball, her back towards the darkness in them.

She blinks once. Twice.

And then anger, somewhere in that void, anger.

Bless it.

"I will." The words are almost a physical attack, a slap, a guttered response.

The eyebrow rises.

Hermione locks gazes with him, battling him, daring him, anger simmering, bubbling over.

Dark fathomless eyes soften and her anger falls away replaced by something, something very much like panic.

She whirls and leaves the store before his voice can demand her to stop, demand an explanation.

The snow is cool on her overly flamed cheeks.

Her mind rants, over and over, circling.

_I will, I will, I will, I will._

She will resist it. Her strength unparallel after so many years of necessity.

_It changes absolutely nothing at all._

She is supposed to meet Ginny, have tea with her, pretend as if she isn't slowly and methodically falling apart.

Darkness whirls were color had once shown prevalent.

Hermione catches sight of George Weasley and she hurries to catch him.

"George."

He turns, the tall, former twin, with eyes a lot more solemn then they had once been, smiling slightly at the sight of her.

"Hermione," he rejoins, scanning her face and the smile falling away, replaced by concern. "You ok?"

Hermione waves a hand. The movement hides the shaking. "Yes. But something has come up. I am supposed to meet Ginny at the Three Broomsticks for tea in about five minutes, is there any possible way you can pass on to her I won't be able to make it and I will meet her at the Burrow tonight?"

George scans her face but slowly nods. "Of course, I was just off for a bite to eat there anyway. I will tell her." He pauses and then puts a hand on her arm, "Are you sure you're ok?"

Hermione nods and forces a smile. "Of course, just tell Ginny." Hermione leans up on tip toes and gives him a peck on the cheek. "Thanks George."

She turns and quickly walks away, leaving George staring after her, puzzlement and worry lining his features.

Clarity. Flashes of reason, of purpose.

Hermione walks under the cast iron gates of the Wizarding Cemetery. Her step is graceful, cloak and robes moving around her, chin tucked into her scarf, head bare to the falling snow.

The whiteness melts when it hits the black of her cloak but stays in her hair, catching in brilliants flashes of light.

She weaves in between tombstones, avoiding the ghosts flying about, dunking under the Ever Weeping Willows, finding the black path of crushed onyx that leads to the far corner of the cemetery.

She stops in front of a small traditional tombstone, a Muggle tombstone; Arthur had insisted.

Kneeling in the snow she rests her hands in her laps, clasping them together, staring at the words there, something aching deep in her chest.

Quietness.

Stillness.

Leaning forward she traces the etched letters with a finger, stone cold, frigid, caressing it like she had once caressed his cheek, his chest, along the lean muscles of his back, the rough line of his jaw.

Tracing. Over and over.

He'd always smelled of apples. A tinge of woods, cloves, something else. He had always smelled of life. When his rough hands, calloused from work, from Quidditch, circled her bare waist, thumb caressing the skin of her stomach, lips moving alongside her neck, she would think of trees, of summer, of dark rich earth.

So bright, so very bright, his eyes, his hair, the glow of freckles along the bridge of his nose.

She once tried to kiss every freckle, along his nose, his arms, his legs, one freckle after another.

They'd collapsed in laughter at the absurd nature of it.

He'd kissed her nose after that, his eyes, so very, very achingly gentle, his hands, never hurried, smoothing away her hair, kissing her temple, either side of her eyes, her chin, and finally her lips.

Her finger drops from the stone.

A wretched feeling along her spine, curling, swirling, circling upwards.

A blaze of heat in her chest, a scattering of pain, piercing, glass and salt swirling in blood magic.

A moan, a breath, barely puffing white in the cold.

Harry is the one who finds her, trembling, darkness falling, snow falling harder.

She barely registers his hands helping her up, his words of concern and alarm echoing from somewhere far away.

"Merlin Hermione, you're freezing. How long have you been here?"

Hermione shakes her head, slowly coming back from the void she found herself floating in.

Harry is warming her hands between his. "Ginny was worried after George delivered your message, said you haven't been yourself lately."

Hermione tries to focus on Harry, on his brilliant green eyes, on normalcy.

"I'm ok," she says but her voice doesn't come out quite right.

Now he is rubbing his hands up and down her cloaked arms. "I hardly think that. Let's get you home."

She doesn't want to go to the Burrow, not with the image of Ron so startling in her mind, but she doesn't know what she will do if she goes back to her own rooms at Hogwarts.

Clarity.

Harry pulls her close to his side, wrapping his arms around her middle. Hermione lets herself fall into his side, warm, so very warm, and then they Disapparate.

She hears voices. She sees faces.

Someone helps her out of her wet cloak, out of her wet robes. Someone places her in a chair in front of a fireplace, pushes a teacup of steaming tea in her hand, wraps a blanket around her shoulders.

The door closes and a silence ward is placed on the room.

All she hears is the crackle of the fire. She sees only the leap of oranges and yellows.

The tea smells of earth.

Her hand fists.

She sees _him_, as he looked, that last morning, a cold and overcast morning, wholly appropriate to what was coming. His white hair caught in the early light. She'd lifted her head from Ron's shoulder and their eyes had met across the distance.

They knew what they had to do.

Their bodies vibrated with it. An awareness. A reality.

Ron had turned and kissed her on the forehead and in the distance a pair of eyes the color of the northern sea narrowed slightly. She felt the burning, the now familiar burning, along her nerves, the quickening of her pulse. The simple awareness of him, him who was not the best friend and lover sitting by her side, pressed close.

It was like this.

A flicker of betrayal.

But she did not expect to survive the day, the night. She didn't think she would see the next morning.

Neither did he and the look they shared, across the kitchen, in front of everyone, was filled with more information, more knowledge, than anything that had ever come before. Her breath had caught at the enormity of it.

But she hadn't expected to survive.

And neither had he.

Moments.

Without clarity.

Hermione sits in front of the fire with her hands clasped around a teacup, the warmth moving into her fingertips, her fingers, but not reaching that point, that place, achingly cold but when it flares with heat so intense it leaves her momentarily stunned.

They left that morning certain of one thing, they would do what had to be done and the consequences be damned.

Everyone at the Burrow knew they were marching into something dangerous, something with consequences, something that could lead to death, but only the two of them had left with the absolute certainty they would not survive.

Cruel fate.

They lived. Others did not.

_Ron_

An echo.

Her eyes are dry. They've long since used up their tears, her body is tired, a constant endless circle of creating a world she did not think she'd have to live, a life, battered in the last couple of days, torn at, storms against the rocks. Ten years, creating, building.

_A life_

The thought is bitterness edged with something else.

Some things change. Some things never do.

Hermione sits in front of the fireplace in the room that was once hers and Ron's and she slowly starts to rebuild the pieces. Picking through them, puzzles, she has always been good at puzzles, logic, logic leads to something that makes sense.

Slowly.

Precious things.

Piece by piece, replacing what was shaken at the first sight of him days before, sitting so casually among her peers, among her _friends_. Replacing what fell and shattered at the compulsion, the bloody awareness of him, the eyes following her, and her response to it.

Creating, strengthening, against him.

What she told Severus was the truth. It changes nothing.

The hours pass, the fire falls and regains light, falls again, moon peaking from the suddenly clear sky until finally, finally, she blinks.

Once.

And then stretches, arms over her head, reaching upwards, backwards, bending herself into a bow, feeling muscles move, tense, release, bones fall in on to each other.

Clarity.

Hermione Granger is once more her own person.

With a tired but pleased look on her face she goes to the bed she once shared with Ron and crawls under the covers, snuggling there for a moment, bringing his pillow close to her chest. It no longer smells of him but she can imagine it.

Sleep takes her even as the early morning light falls through the curtained window.


	5. Chapter 5

Christmas was a whirlwind of presents, people, food, smells, laughter, sadness, spiced pumpkin, spiced cider, butterbeer, Firewhiskey, endless amounts of tea, and memories, too many memories.

Hermione is almost thankful when she steps into her quarters at Hogwarts, fire cheering the room from dark storm clouds outside, tea already set out for her. The books, quills, parchments and the faint smell of lavender are brilliant, like walking back into an old lover's arms.

Something eases in her chest.

Until she sees the parchment rolled up, a very unfamiliar but equally familiar image stamped in dark green wax.

The Malfoy's family crest stares up at her.

She refuses to see her hands shaking as she picks up the parchment, refuses to notice the slight hitch in her breathing as she breaks the seal and slowly unrolls it.

The silence is startled at her sudden snort of laughter, laughter lined with embarrassment and just a touch of hysteria.

Quick and to the point, it is arrangements to meet during the week to go over plans.

That's all.

Why would she think it was anything else?

Briefly, just briefly, she thinks about telling him a meeting is not necessary, making excuses about the beginning of term and not being ready. But it is a lie, and he would know it for one.

Her hand is steady as she hurriedly writes her reply, granting his request, suggesting he meet her tomorrow afternoon in her office.

The barriers firmly in place.

Before she can think of anything else she grabs her cloak once more and heads for the Owlery.

It's snowing again, light flakes swirling around in the air, catching what little light there is from the castle itself. She sighs and stares at the dark night spreading out before her, the little white owl disappearing, the parchment tied securely to his leg, her own otter seal set in red wax glimmering.

She leans, looking outwards, ice curling on her cheeks.

The stone of the building is cold underneath her hands, almost burning. She keeps her skin there, feeling the cold move into her joints, twirling around the bones.

Her wrists ache with it.

Like before.

She'd held her wand pointed towards him, a steady brilliant cold along her fingers. Her wrists had ached with it, with the darkness.

His hand warm against her chest, the palm smooth against her skin.

Liquid silver, a slight twist to his lips.

A drop of moisture, beading, at the point of contact.

_No!_

Her voice, behind barriers.

She pulls her fingers from the stone and wraps them in the black of her cloak. Quickly, steps firm, the only sound in the silence, she leaves the Owlery.

Hermione makes her way back to her quarters, seeing no one, and no one but the portraits, seeing her.

She throws her cloak over a chair and sits herself at her desk.

Lesson plans. Work.

The only sound in her room is the flicker of flames and quill against parchment until sometime later it stops and she finally looks up, stomach growling out in hunger, back aching from bending over her work.

She has, once again, missed dinner.

Hermione does this often and no one will notice her absence. It is only when school is in session that the faculty is required to appear at one meal a day. It is an annoying rule and one she genuinely does not like and wishes Minerva would change, despite Dumbledore's portrait insisting it stay in place.

Meddlesome, he was always so meddlesome, and his portrait is the same.

Once more walking the passageways of the school, Hermione expertly makes her way to the kitchen, her mind far away on something she wants to try with her seventh years and not at all on the path in front of her, a pathway she has tread several hundred times in the last ten years.

Later she will say it is a testament to the strength of her barriers that she did not feel his presence, to her strength of will. Much, much later she will say it was something else.

Both times she will agree it was embarrassing.

She walks into him as she turns the corner, stifling a gasp, blazing, darkness, cold, ice, heat.

She steps back.

Draco knows it's her because of the scent.

Lavender.

Years after the war, he'd dined in America with a very beautiful and very powerful CEO. He'd been completely enamoured with her legs, long legs shown off by a skirt slit up her thigh. He'd been looking forward to a most delightful evening.

Until he'd leaned forward and caught the woman's scent.

The memory of Hermione in front of the fire, head down, twirling her quill.

The woman's blonde head had tilted, blue eyes curious, and she had asked if he was ok.

He'd asked what scent she was wearing.

He'd left her on her doorstep, a chaste kiss on her surprised lips.

The scent, captured in a crystal bottle hidden in his wardrobe, not looked upon since that night, the night he'd bought it.

Essence of lavender.

A memory.

And reality, twining together.

It leaves him stunned.

If only for a moment.

And then he is stepping backwards also, ease, blackness blending with the white of his skin, his hair, silent.

Face a mask of smoothness, though with just a hint of smirk alongside his mouth.

"Professor Granger," he says.

It's like velvet, a baritone velvet, and it caresses the space between them. Hermione's nerves flare, awareness, cascading, overwhelming.

_No!_

She straightens; her face as carefully blank as his.

"Mr. Malfoy," she responds in kind, voice clear.

A slight tilt of his head, high cheekbones catching the shadows, silver eyes smoothing over her features, over her throat. He catches the slight and rapid pulse at her throat.

The smirk grows slightly. Feral.

Hunter and hunted.

And then disappears.

Hermione's hands clench into fists, hidden in her cloak.

"Why are you here?" she asks, keeping her body rigid, spine razor straight.

Draco raises an eyebrow, a perfect imitation of his former head of house, but instead of looking as if he is trying to imitate—as it once would have—it is normal on him, part of him, a slash against his skin.

She almost expects him to laugh at her, call her names, transport them back to years before, when they were enemies, when things were…clear.

Instead he answers her.

"I had some business with the Headmistress, regarding our project."

Hermione's own eyebrow rises and Draco can't help but let the smirk curl his mouth upwards. "Not about you Professor Granger, about the financial side of the project."

This throws Hermione off and she unknowingly tilts her head, eyes going from flint brown to a softer chocolate. It catches Draco under the breastbone and pulls. Hard.

"I didn't know you were supporting this financially." She is looking away as she says this but her gaze snaps back to his, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

Draco's laugh is low, humorous, a rumble of sound.

It causes things to happen to Hermione that she distinctly does not want to think about.

"You've asked me that already. Was my answer not good enough before?"

"You don't owe me a life debt." The words, out of her mouth before she can stop them.

Harsh. Brittle.

Draco's silver eyes narrow.

Hermione steps back, slightly, a swirl of black cloak in the dim torchlight. She doesn't know what she sees, she can't read him, not anymore, she has seen to that. But whatever is there, it causes something in her to tremble, something at the corner of her mind to cower.

She bites down on the whimper crawling up her throat.

"I believe, Miss Granger, you are mistaken about that." The words frozen in the air, tinkling as they hit the stone walls, the stone floor, as they pierce a part of Hermione's newly repaired barrier.

Before she can say anything more Draco bows. "I apologize for running into you Professor Granger, if you will excuse me I have somewhere to be."

He melts into the shadows even before she realizes he has moved around her.

Fury. Red hot and whirling around his brain.

_The complete and utter fool._

Fury.

Her words.

Draco pauses, cloak rustling around his legs from the sudden movement.

_Does she not know what she did?_

_Impossible!_

He starts moving again, slower this time, gliding rather than the jerky movements of before, fury replaced by contemplation.

_Could she really not know?  
_

But then why the panic? Why the images of fear he so clearly saw fall across her face.

He stops again, just as suddenly.

"Fucking unbelievable," he curses in the shadows, so vehemently that the portrait next to him, an old gardener of Hogwarts, startles and pales at the tone.

There is murder in it.

Because she does know, because she did know. He can still clearly see her expression at the end of the battle, as the first morning light lay over the bloodied field, over the fallen bodies. He can recall her expression with perfect accuracy.

She knew then.

She knows now.

The fury is growing again, a white hot tide, curling, curling, upwards…and then…nothing, falling away before it crashes down on him.

Replaced by coolness.

Hunter and hunted.

So she refuses to see it, but there are ways. It is a compulsion after all, one bred of darkness.

And the dark is not a nice thing. Shadows are there for a reason.

A pale hand, blood red stone flickering.

Draco starts his walk again, moving through the passageways. He is supposed to meet with the President of W.W.T., a Wizarding technological company. The President requested his presence for after dinner drinks to discuss the implementation of technology into the Wizarding community. But there are things, more important things, things that require his attention, things that have everything to do with a Transfiguration professor and nothing to do with the future of the Wizarding world.

Or so he thinks.

He Disapparates in mid-stride, Apparates in mid-stride and walks down a poorly lit road in the middle of what appears to be nowhere, face once more smooth and content in the knowledge he has.

The wind brings the smell of the sea. It moves over the tops of trees outlined black against the night sky, ruffling the white hair of the dark figure who owns these woods and the road he walks on with easy familiarity.

Draco emerges into a clearing, the Malfoy Manor spreading out in front of him in all its glory.

The coldness of its walls perfectly matches the coldness of its owner.

The things within its walls, both mentionable and otherwise, also an eerie match.

It's a chilling thought, what that means.

Draco takes the steps to the front door with easy long strides and is soon lost in the shadows of his family home.

The wind whispers its mourning song and the trees sway in the darkness.

Hermione stands perfectly still. She feels the lessening of pressure in her chest, indicating Draco has left Hogwarts and only then is the complete immobility in her body lessened and she starts forward, towards the kitchen.

Away. Away.

She checks for damage.

But there is no flare in her chest, no echo of him in her thoughts.

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips and she continues her journey to the kitchen.

She carries her dinner back to her rooms and settles herself in front of the fireplace. Her appetite has never been much, and even less in times of great turmoil, but she finds she is hungry tonight and soon her plate is cleared.

Hermione curls her hand around her tea and slowly sips at the liquid.

She is immensely pleased with the outcome of this confrontation.

She resolutely ignores the memory of when she first made contact with him; first felt the hardness in front of her. She also refuses to remember the look in his eye and the way she had reacted to it.

Denial.

She takes another sip of her tea and revels in it.

Though she refuses to name what she is revelling in.

Tomorrow she will meet with him. Tomorrow they will sit like the adults they are, the lives they've chosen spread out behind them, and she will create the curriculum with him, to protect children, children like Lily, and little Ronald, and all the others.

It was their fault, this glimmer of black, of shadow, alongside the light of everyday magic. They'd crossed the line with knowledge, with understanding of what it was they were doing, and they had known, she had known, there would be consequences to their actions.

Hermione is a brilliant witch, the most brilliant of her time some say, and she is smart enough to understand her actions caused reactions.

Simple Muggle physics, that.

And she is taking steps to correct it, make the situation better, create a fail safe.

The reactions, something she can shape, mold, simplistic, easy even.

Denial.

She revels in it.


	6. Chapter 6

_"…we shiver at the thought of death and pain…tragic or unspeakable events cut us to the quick, but that which inspires us with terror is like the sun, no less glorious if we turn our weak eyes away from its blaze." G. Bataille_

He walks across the snow covered lawn with leisured steps. The day is grey, rolling clouds moving across the landscape, the wind brutal, the cold infused with a bite that attacks exposed skin.

Draco is clad entirely in black, a darkness walking on the glaring white of the landscape. Only his eyes, closely resembling the clouds overhead, and the precise nature of his hair suggest anything but the most detached shadow.

A gliding shadow along the scene of a winter's afternoon.

Chilling in its expanse.

The Bloody Baron sees him enter the castle.

Something stirs within the ghost, something closely resembling pride.

And fear.

Though the Bloody Baron would never admit to the latter.

The ghost doesn't talk to the living man, giving him wide berth, moving away, floating, watching, spirit eyes widening slightly as he catches sight of a red stone on an elegant white hand.

If a ghost could back peddle the Bloody Baron would have, hastily moving away from the departing man, back towards the trophy room.

He has a portrait he needs to find.

Draco does not see the Bloody Baron.

He has not slept, though nothing outwardly would give indication of it.

The light in the Malfoy library had shown through to the morning, exposing a figure bent over a large desk, books, parchments and a white quill spread out before him.

When the clock had chimed, reminding him of his meeting at Hogwarts, only then did Draco look up, only then did he sink back into the overstuffed chair.

Only for a moment.

Brief. Closing his eyes, allowing himself to float.

He'd felt greater weariness before but not in a long time.

He'd stood up, making quick on the clean-up, on the potion to allow him greater awareness, then let himself out of the silent house, off the grounds, mind intent on Hogwarts and the witch there.

A clarity. It flows with him as he walks through the passageways of the old school.

Most of the Professors are back from break, getting ready for the first week of term, holed up in their offices or in the staff rooms.

Draco is glad for the quiet, glad for the lack of obstacles in his way. He knows his mood is carefully balanced, carefully placed exactly where it should be.

His control is absolute.

But weakness in others is a weakness in him and he'd rather not have to expend energy in being polite, in ignoring the existence of an individual who nearly quakes in fear when they realize who he is.

Existence is precious when the desire to shred is very present, and very real.

An iron fist on the dark swirling about his cloak, on the desire gliding up his person.

He makes it through the passageways without encountering anyone and precisely at the time Professor Granger had requested, he knocks once on her office door.

There is a moment of silence and that grin, that feral grin tinged with red, spreads over the aristocratic features of the last Malfoy prince.

It falls away when he hears the quiet "come in."

Control.

Precious control.

When he walks in and sees Hermione seated at a desk, parchments piled everywhere, quill stuck through her mass of curls at the top of her head, he does not react.

Not, at least, outwardly.

A great strength of will.

A stubbornness.

She looks up and they lock eyes.

Dark and light, in so many different ways, in such opposites, that if one knew how to look, one could not tell where light began and dark ended. An intertwining shadow, play of night and day.

"Mr. Malfoy," comes the precise voice, "please have a seat."

Draco smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Rather formal of you?"

He is rewarded with a quick flash of irritation before it is carefully covered.

"Only appropriate in such work situations."

"Of course," Draco murmurs, taking the high back chair across from her, desk firmly between them.

Hermione is cursing him, cursing him for the ease in which he seats himself, for the slight smirk alongside his mouth, the way his hands lay against the dark fabric of his trousers.

For the way those eyes, quicksilver and promising, look at her knowingly.

She wants to scream. She wants to thrash out.

Lose her temper. It would be so very pleasant just to lose her temper.

It's been so long.

But instead Hermione looks down at the parchment in front of her, the list she has gone over more than once in preparation for Draco's arrival. A tentative assurance, a reminder.

A point of focus.

Hermione looks up from the parchment and locks gazes with the man across the desk from her.

He waits patiently.

Something cowers deep inside, at the base of her spine, where the pressure of his arrival presses, presses down on her nerves.

She hands over the parchment. Her hand is steady.

One small victory.

She lets go of the parchment as soon as his hand touches it.

A knowing smirk, only partially hidden, which infuriates her more.

Draco looks over what she has written. Her idea is simple and he instantly understands what she is suggesting. A part of him, albeit a small part of him, wishes for a moment it is as simple as she wants it to be.

The greater part of him relishes that its not.

Complexity. Interwoven within transgressions.

Once upon a time a Professor that was not a Professor any longer told him of a spell, a binding spell, created to destroy, but in its adverse affect, in its very nature, the outcome could be inversed, could be used.

At the time, not even an unspeakable, not even knowledge, so hidden, so ancient.

So very, very dark.

The result obvious in the lines along Hermione's face, along the edges of his cheekbones.

The plan, laid out in front of him.

He places the parchment on her desk, meeting her expectant gaze.

"It won't work."

Hermione narrows her eyes and her chin raises several notches into the air.

Some things change, some things never do.

She snatches the parchment. "Why ever not?" She asks, irritation now clear, not trying to hide it this time.

Draco steeples his fingers and Hermione wants to scratch at his face.

"The logic is wrong," he replies; she is reminded distinctly of who he used to be, the Slytherin prince, the Malfoy hated by her and her friends.

Ron

A whisper.

A flare and suddenly she is no longer looking at the man across from her but at the person he was ten years ago when she'd walked into his room at the Burrow. He lay under the white sheet, eyes open, staring at the wall, curled so tightly into a ball he was half his normal size.

She'd watched him, watched his breathing, knowing he knew she was there, somehow knowing that he would speak when he was ready.

He had not spoken that day. Nor the next three days, but on the morning the sun filtered through rain clouds creating pictures of light on the painted walls he'd turned over under the sheets and told her that he'd seen her parents killed. That he'd seen his father kill them.

That his aunt had tortured them before they finally died.

In front of him.

Less than three feet away.

She hadn't gone back to the room again.

"The logic is fine," she snaps.

He shakes his head, clearly amused. "No, it's not."

She scowls. He smirks.

And continues, "If you teach the basis of dark magic, the reason behind it, but nothing more, understanding will always be limited, solving nothing."

Hermione catches her bottom lip, worrying it.

Draco's breath hitches. Barely discernable.

"Well, what would you have us do? Teach them the actual dark spells?"

Draco tears his eyes away from her lip, resolutely ignored the flare in his chest. It's almost as hard as ignoring the flare of the Dark Mark.

Almost.

"Not if we change the definition of what a dark spell is."

Hermione sees where he is going, though her intrinsically good nature, the part of her still wanting to believe in black and white, resists what he says.

Once upon a time her world was made of black and white, no grey tingeing the edges, no shadows lurking about to confuse, befuddle, lead down the wrong paths.

Clarity.

Black and white.

"Transgression," she mutters.

"Deconstruction," he counters.

She raises an eyebrow. "Of what?"

"The actual dark magic."

She slowly nods and leans forward, resting her elbows on her desk as she thinks about what he says, quill moving between her fingers.

White feather, back and forth, back and forth.

Draco watches the quill, watches her delicate fingers twirl it first one way and then another.

This time its not the compulsion that flares to life but something male and very primitive.

Hermione muses. "Creating a different meaning because the association is different. Creating backwards by developing definitions."

Draco inclines his head, light from the fire catching at his hair. "Definitions of everyone who insists on understanding both the dark and the light of magic," he replies.

He watches her puzzle it out, put the pieces together, her ever logical mind slowly going over what they said, finding flaws, finding strengths, strapping them together.

Hermione stands up suddenly and moves around the desk, going towards the bookcase that lines one entire wall of her office.

Draco watches her with deceptive laziness, though his every muscle tenses at her sudden movement.

Hermione doesn't realize she is being watched, mind focused, though a part of her, a small part of her, recognizes a tightening at that spot at the base of her spine.

She finds what she is looking for and pulls a roll of parchments down from the shelf, bringing it over to where Draco sits and hands it over to him.

He takes it cautiously, looking up at her in question.

She looks away, moving back to her seat, desk between them.

Safety. Though she won't admit as much.

"What's this?" Draco asks, slowly unwinding the parchments.

"My original notes," she says and wonders why her voice sounds strange.

Draco doesn't seem to notice. This time he is the one focused on what is in front of him and not the other person.

Hermione watches him. The point on her chest does not react but somewhere, deep inside, something presses, heavier and heavier, noticing his hand holding the parchment, tapered fingers, smooth, so very smooth palms, her eyes travelling upwards, the line of his jaw, the play of colour in his eyes, the hair, always so perfect, catching and holding the fire light.

Her hand twitches.

Draco finally looks up, puzzlement clear on his feature. "Why did you keep these?"

A flippant shrug, but Draco is watching her closely and sees the flash of panic on her face before she looks down and picks up her quill.

She'd been studying him. A reason for the panic, yes, but something else as well.

"I thought it might be important one day."

Draco nods and looks down. Silver eyes, before just curious now refocus with great intensity.

Hunter closing in.

He looks back up. Hermione catches her breath at his look, nerves flaying open, a brush of fire along her skin.

Damn him. Damn him, damn this.

The curl falls from the bun at the top of her head.

Falls, catches the light, curling along side her cheek.

The flow of air, changes, moves, rolls across the room.

The point on Draco's chest flares to life, a brilliant white light, glorious in its wretched pain.

And the shadow between them, the lining of darkness even in the light of day, hardens, strengthens.

Pain. Death. Definers. Connectors.

Hermione's eyes widen as she feels it, just barely, but there, wiggling past her barriers, the heat moving in, touching that place, that ever cold place in her chest, warming.

And that something she thought she'd killed, she'd thought she murdered one night so long ago, whispers its arrival and she feels it, a slow awakening, a dawning, a glowing heat moving up her spine.

She stands so fast she feels dizzy.

Books and parchments fall to the floor.

She stills, looking down at him.

She will not be the one to leave her office.

He watches her. Face blank.

She slowly sits back down, picking up her quill.

Moments.

"Minerva would like for this program in place by next school year."

Her words come out steady.

Draco nods. "That is possible," he smirks, "but do you think you have enough time for this?"

The question is an open ended one, meant to cause paranoia.

"Yes." She does not rise to the bait. She looks down at her parchment full of notes.

Draco moves in his chair. The pain is no longer ricocheting through his body, no longer focused on the point in his chest, but still present, a dull ache. "The Headmistress has requested I stay at Hogwarts, to complete this in the fastest time possible."

Hermione's face pales but otherwise there is no indication that the news terrifies her.

"That makes sense," she replies.

"I have also asked Severus to help us."

This statement gets more of a reaction, a slight widening of the eyes, a slight intake of breath, along with the paling of her skin.

"Because?"

Draco smirks, telling her it's a stupid question with just a look. "Because he is the foremost expert in the Dark Arts, and," he pauses to lean just slightly more forward, "because he was there the first time."

Hermione ignores his tone. "Of course," she murmurs.

"Will he also be staying here?" Her tone is tinged in something like amusement and the air twirls, changes again.

Draco's finger traces the wood of the arm chair.

Long fingers.

Blood twinkling in a stone.

Hermione sees the stone for the first time and something cracks.

Twirl of air.

Things redirect once more.

"I doubt that," Draco answers. His finger lifts from the wood, curls around itself, falls to the black of his trousers again.

Hermione's gaze snaps up from that finger, that stone, locking with the silver gaze.

Death.

A connector.

Her hands tremble just a small amount, the quill between them vibrating, one way and then the other, over and over.

Fire crackles in the silence.

She puts the quill down and brushes back a strand of hair from her face. She doesn't realize her action but she catches the narrowing gaze of the man across from her. A flash of power.

Though she doesn't know what it is.

She smiles though and her smile is not nice, hard, barriers breaking but resolutely standing between them.

Leaning forward in her seat, towards her desk, towards the man across from her she raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be an all important man, the illustrious Draco Malfoy, too busy helping the Wizarding world to bother with such trivialities as creating a curriculum for mere school children?"

The dull ache of pain, suddenly she sees it, along the lines of his jaw, the glint of his eyes, the perfectly sculpted hands.

The wink of a blood red stone.

It pulls at something deep in her womb. A warning.

"Or have the rumours about you been grossly exaggerated?" She adds, her voice is silk, dark black silk pulled across his skin.

Once Draco stood in front of the Dark Lord and he was asked the same question. He had looked upon the red eyes and had lied.

This time he doesn't.

"Yes."

It's not the response she thought he would give and the smile falters. Just slightly.

But then regains its intensity. "So, you have a great deal of time to put towards this project?"

Draco tilts his head, catching, holding her gaze. "It's my top priority."

The air whirls.

He is not talking about the project.

Hermione breaks the gaze and looks towards the windows. The sun, which had struggled to appear all day is no longer struggling as dark clouds of grey roll unmercifully across the sky.

The colour of the northern sea. Narrowing slightly.

She looks back at Draco.

He is watching her, face blank, eyes piercing.

A small smirk plays around his mouth, lips moving upwards.

Suddenly Hermione is very tired.

"So you will take a look at my old notes?"

Draco does not outwardly respond to the sudden quiet, tired, tone in the question but inside his focus reemphasizes and he watches. She will dismiss him shortly.

"Of course." He gathers the parchments from where he laid them on the desk, rolling them together slowly. "I have several unimportant matters to take care of but will be in residence by the end of the week."

Hermione nods. She doesn't want to hear this.

"Classes are always hectic the first week back after break," she says, straightening the parchments on her desk, the quills, the books.

Draco stands suddenly and the room shrinks as he rises. "Perhaps at the end of the week we can go over what I find."

Hermione's breath hitches. She stands to face him and then moves around her desk, towards the door, opening it for him. "That will work."

He smiles, a true smile, light, darkness, startling, breathing in and out.

"Until then Hermione," he says quietly, passing her with the whisper of a black cloak.

Barriers shatter and fall.


	7. Chapter 7

Minerva sits in her office and stares at the portrait in front of her.

"You're sure of this Albus?" She asks. Her voice is strained.

"Of course," the portrait says, eyes sober as he looks down at the witch who has always been at his side, and even now sits at her desk so she can look upon him.

Minerva brings up a hand and moves it across her face, as if trying to make her thoughts disappear.

The hand falls to her lap. "Does Severus know?"

Dumbledore's portrait smiles wryly, "I'm sure he knows something about it."

"But then why did he not say anything?"

The portrait does not immediately answer, instead looking away from her, and Minerva frowns at it. "What are you hiding Albus?"

The ancient eyes of the wizard in the portrait refocus on the current Headmistress of Hogwarts. He slowly shakes his head. "It's nothing really Minerva, just a thought I had, about those two young children."

"They are hardly children," Minerva points out.

"Of course."

There is a moment of silence, a moment of something else, heavy in the room.

"What is it?" Minerva finally asks.

Another pause.

And then softly spoken words. "Those children never should have had to make that decision, they never should have had to do what they did."

Another pause.

The crackle of fire, the flicker of torches, a long sound of wind hitting the side of the castle, whistling through the cracks that should not exist but do anyway.

"What did they do?" Minerva asks. There is clear doubt in her voice, clear concern, and underneath it all, despite what she has seen in her life, the many, many things she has seen in her life, there is fear.

The eyes of Dumbledore's portrait are just as blue as when the man was alive, just as knowing, just as expressive and where most of the time there is an unmistakable twinkling, now there is just grave sadness.

"They all grew up too fast. Even you Minerva, even you grew up too fast, a history of children growing into adults without the ability to be children, to have the world without the worries, without the darkness. Generations of souls mourning their youth."

Minerva watches the portrait, finger at her lips as if to tell the portrait to cease speaking, to tell him she doesn't want to hear his words.

"And young Miss Granger and young Mr. Malfoy, they too were children who had to make decisions based on the decisions of others, based on things outside of their experiences and their control."

Another silence.

Minerva waits but the portrait does not continue to speak.

"You are concerning me," her voice, barely loud enough to register over the sound of the flames, over the whistling of the wind.

The old wizard in the portrait smiles then, a tired smile, but a smile never the less.

"There is no need for concern Minerva," a gentle tone, belying the words he's just spoken. "They will come to realize the decision was not so much of a bad one." He pauses and a frown flickers across his features before being replaced again by a smile, "If they don't kill one another first."

"Albus!" Minerva looks at the portrait in shock.

The portrait chuckles. "Just kidding Minerva."

On another part of the continent, a shadow grows and develops along the edges of something that was once pure but hasn't been in a long time.

A dark figure moves through the shadow, fully intent on his own thoughts, not at all paying attention to the rising mist, the wetness curling around his form, folding back into him.

He moves easily, gliding, commanding the air around him, sure footed even on the rocks, making his way over the slippery stone, ocean strong and loud in his ears. It echoes off the cliffs, ricocheting back to the water.

It's frigid cold, the wind whipping a black cloak, black hair, the stars overhead glinting on pale features, the little light lost in dark, almost black eyes, fathomless.

The coastline is deserted. Nothing overlooks the ocean, nothing looks over the expanse of cliffs. A small trail, curving upwards from the beach, down from where he stands, upwards into the night.

A stone home appears with a flick of his wrist, the only light on the bottom floor, a faint glow in the dark night, not welcoming, not in the least.

If someone other than the dark figure had come across the piece of land, the house that was not a house, out in the middle of nowhere, on a desolate and lonely coast, they would have felt physically ill, nausea creeping up their throats, a throbbing and instantaneous headache, and the distinct desire to never go near the place ever again.

A complicated ward, created through hours of dark study and with tinges of the creator's own malevolence.

The other wards are the occupants of the house and it is with relish that the man disables them with barely a thought, unravelling the carefully orchestrated charms so nothing befalls him as he comes to the door and opens it.

Three steps to the source of the light, a room that closely but not quite resembles a library, a flickering fire in the grate, shabby furniture, floors sagging from the sea air, peeling papered walls and amongst it an individual, sitting in a shabby chair, skeleton hands grasping the chair arms, blond hair falling in strands across his face.

The man dressed entirely in black walks in and sits himself in an equally shabby chair across from the other, bending his legs in front of him, easy, elegant, always so very graceful, always so very in control of himself.

A smile, blood hungry, fearsome, murderous, glinting in the flicker of flames.

He pierces the man across from him with a look.

"Tell me about your son's compulsion," Severus says.

The house shudders at the silky danger in the words.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco finds her in the library.

He ignores the looks of fascination from green and silver dressed students and the fear from all the other students and two different Professors.

The librarian, a woman he doesn't know, cowers backwards as he walks towards and around her.

A testament to his focus, he barely gives her a smirk.

Hermione sits at the table she used as a student, back between the rows of books, next to a window overlooking the grounds. The view is a glimpse of the Forbidden Forest, out towards the hut where Hagrid once lived but which is empty now.

She twirls a quill between her fingers, head tilted against the morning sun, shadowing her face.

He stops just outside the circle of light, leaning against a tall bookcase.

Watching her with something like amusement.

Remembering that he used to do this.

Used to watch her.

Standing behind the same row of books, he would narrow his gaze as the curly haired Mudblood would forget the world around her, lost in the book she was reading or the essay she was writing.

It had always intrigued him.

The filthy Mudblood.

Something so completely in contrast to everything he was, everything he was supposed to be.

The Slytherin prince, the Malfoy heir, pure-blood, aristocrat.

Like looking at an exotic animal between the bars of a cage, he would stare.

He'd watch her twirl her quill, watch her push away unruly hair, bite at her lower lip, and he would wonder at the nature of such a beast, that could, for all apparent indications, be intelligent, brilliant even, but still, so incredibly filthy.

Below him.

No. Not even below him.

A distinctly different species altogether.

So many changes, a war, a life, a matter of instances, things, irrevocable changes.

He stands in the same place. Watching her.

Until she can feel his eyes and looks up.

Brown the colour of amber in the dark and silver the colour of a northern sea.

So many changes.

A flare.

He walks forward, moves ever so gracefully despite the ever present ache, sliding into the chair across from her.

Hermione watches him with a calculated look of disinterest.

He waits.

Smirks when a frown of irritation crosses her face.

"We have to recreate the spell," she says.

Not what he expected. A whirling of air in his ears, roaring, blood pounding, once, twice, a moment in time.

"What are you talking about Granger?" A strangled voice, an echo of something in the past.

Hermione looks on him calmly, not entirely surprised to see Draco's face is carefully blank, though his voice holds more than enough indication of his thoughts.

Her eyes fall to his hand, to the stone there.

It glows.

She looks back up, something tugging in her chest when she meets his eyes. Heat, quicksilver, liquid, molten.

_What am I doing?_

A thought, near on to panic, circling, around and around in her head.

She presses on. "We have to recreate the spell, not actually follow through with it, but follow the path."

Draco's hand moves through his hair and the gesture, a gesture so out of bounds to his usual control, causes Hermione's breath to catch.

"Why?" A single word. Not a hint of emotion. Flat.

She keeps her eyes resolutely locked with his. She will not look away. It is their fault, it is her fault. It must be fixed.

She will not look away.

"Because we have to understand what it is we started," she answers.

The usual white strands of hair are mussed, one hand causing the perfect nature of it, the simple _pure-blood_ nature of it, to fall apart.

The desire to touch those mussed strands is almost undeniable. She can feel them under her fingertips.

Silkiness, so very, very fine.

Almost undeniable.

Draco slowly relaxes, muscles easing, hands falling on the legs of his black trousers. It is as if he visibly puts on the Malfoy coat, complete with a hint of smirk, just along the side of his blank expression, just along the side of his lips.

A testament to control.

Hermione is not as well versed in such control. But she has had several days to come to terms with this decision, several days to wrestle with the overwhelming panic associated with it.

And it was overwhelming, the knowledge coming to her in the middle of the night, on one of her walks through the dark passageways. A flicker of idea, quickly extinguished, then revisited.

By the time she'd gone back to her rooms the flicker of an idea had formed into the knowledge that there was no other way.

No other way.

To understand where the line blurs, they must understand what they did to create such an effect.

One must understand the action in order to understand the reaction.

Hermione can feel her response to the knowledge still, just barely, at the tip of her nerves.

Panic, the feel of it choking her, its fretful hands clawing at her throat, but underneath it, that thread strengthening, whispering.

Even as her mind and body screams out in silent protest, a darkness seducing something deeply imbedded though long ignored, stroking, slowly, with a feather touch.

She watches Draco gather himself, amazed at him, even as she tries to control the little bit of her thought from shining through.

She could hide it from anyone else.

She knows Draco can read her as if she hid nothing at all.

It irritates her.

He sees it and smirks.

Which irritates her more.

Because she had the higher ground, if only for a moment. Because she had thrown him, had seen him lose composure. The fine white hair just slightly out of place is an indication of it.

If nothing else is.

"Did you actually look over my notes?" She asks, her voice almost waspish.

He doesn't react to it, and instead pulls the parchments from his robes, shrunk to carry easily but resized with a flick of his wrist. He is unrolling the parchments and does not notice Hermione start at his use of wandless magic.

She snaps back into focus when he hands her a newer looking parchment with his slanted handwriting obvious on it. Strong black strokes on the parchment, slashes against it.

Distinct.

Hermione reads over it, at first not able to pay attention because of the eyes she knows are steady on her, but as the words start to form she forgets Draco's presence entirely, rapidly reading over what he is suggesting.

She looks up finally, surprised to find him still in the same position, still staring at her, though dismissing what that might indicate in the need to talk about what he'd written.

"This is, you think this…" she stops, shakes her head slightly, "The original spell, do you know it?"

It's a demanding question filled with echoes of bossiness.

Some things change. Some do not.

Hauteur, so very annoying, causing Hermione's nerve to crackle in reaction. The smirk becomes something more.

"I know where to find it."

"And?" Hermione asks, no effort at all in hiding what she thinks about the man sitting across from her at that moment.

Draco sits forward in his seat, closing some of the distance between them.

Though there is still a table, still a pile of books, of parchments, of years, Hermione swallows.

He sees it, lip curling even as he catches her eye. "If you insist that the only way of completing this is to recreate the events, then yes, I can get it."

His gaze, heavy on her skin, pressing, pressing.

Pausing, and then…

"You mean to recreate it?" He asks and in that simple question, so many things, so very many things.

Hermione's fists clench, finger nails digging into her palm. Focus, focus, pain, small pain, focus.

"It's the only way," she answers.

Time. Hovering, the swirl of air, breath, darkening of silver to the colour of wet stone, a wisp of white hair, a burgundy curl, lip pulled between white teeth, red stone flickering.

Moments.

Moments.

The sound of someone slamming a book closed.

Draco rises to his feet even as Hermione blinks at the sudden movement.

"I will contact you when I locate the spell," he says, gathering the parchment, shrinking them with the same flick of a wrist.

Hermione nods. "Of course."

His gaze catches and holds for just a small moment longer.

And then he is gone and she can breathe again.

Quickly, walking quickly, moving away from the library, to the entryway, out of the school, across the grounds, reaching the edge of the property and then, only then, stopping.

A shaky hand comes up, pulling through white strands.

_Bloody hell. Bloody motherfucking hell._

To recreate. To do it over again, even if in a mock way, to touch what was once touched, just even in passing.

_Bloody hell._

Ten years of controlling the blood running through his veins, the blood echoing in the stone he wears. Ten years of harnessing the magic given to him.

Given to him unknowingly.

Without forethought.

Because she was who she was.

And because he was who he was.

Draco actually groans, the pain in his chest searing, his body wanting to curl downwards, in onto itself, bow down to the pressure, such incredibly heavy pressure, pushing him towards the earth.

To grasp it and hold on, face smothered in the dirt.

To forget into the darkness.

The blessed, blessed darkness.

He closes his eyes, wrapping the cold around him, allowing the shadows behind closed lids to sooth and then with a mental focus trained into him by the one most accomplished in such things, he Apparates to Muggle London.

He walks into Severus' house in a foul mood, more than sorry when he finds the older man is not in residence. He wants to lash out, cause pain, and knows, perhaps instinctively, his old Professor is the only one who could survive such an assault.

The only one now anyway.

An edge of black that is more than just an edge but which is absent in most everyone else.

Except for the children, who all, everyone birthed since that day ten years ago, have shadows.

Colours of grey, just tingeing.

The Dark Lord would have laughed at the irony of it.

Draco throws himself in one of the overstuffed chairs in the library, bringing a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose, between closed eyes.

When did it start?

The meetings?

The meetings he'd been allowed to attend only because he had gone to Voldemort standing, gone voluntarily, at the side of Severus, and lied to the Dark Lord.

And had come back in a broken body.

Not because the Dark Lord was displeased with him.

No, because that was what the Dark Lord did.

And then, only then, was he allowed to join the meetings, only then did they start to believe that he was not going to betray them. Not because they trusted him or believed in what he said, but because they thought they understood his survival instinct and what he would do to survive.

_You're just here because you know we'll win._

The young Weasley's words, spit at him, disgust at the enormity of what he thought was a transgression, arm wrapped protectively around the brown-eyed witch at his side.

He'd not denied it.

In a way, it had been the truth.

But when Ron turned away, she had stayed, staring at him, studying him, he could almost see the brilliant mind working.

It had infuriated him.

And he'd lashed out.

The only way he knew how. Verbally.

But she had not reacted in the way he anticipated. Instead of anger, horror, or even irritation, he saw pity.

He'd had to leave. He would not have been able to control the urge to kill her if he'd stayed.

The harsh training of complete control had started that day when he vowed to never again let anyone, anyone at all, effect him to the point of losing control.

The sound of Severus' wards dismantling alerts Draco to the other man's approach and with precise care he smoothes a hand across his hair, magically putting it back in its perfect form, then straightens himself in the chair.

The tall dark wizard enters the library with barely a sound.

Draco watches him.

Nothing of the other man's appearance would warrant concern. Everything from the top of his black head to the black boots is immaculate, precise. But there is something, something behind that blank mask. Something behind the black eyes looking at Draco.

Draco is instantly on alert.

The shadows of the room seem to grow with the dark wizard's presence.

"Draco," silky tones of greeting, long lithe body slowly falling to the other chair, flicking his wrist so tea appears in front of him.

Draco does not answer, watching Severus, tensed underneath the relaxed nature of his position.

"Tea?" Long thin hands handling the teacup, the teapot.

Draco accepts the offered tea, warming his palms with the porcelain but not drinking.

Not yet.

Severus sips his tea. Draco sips his.

But not before he tests the rising steam with a nose long practiced to detecting scents, ingredients.

The older man pins the younger with expressionless eyes. Draco meets them and does not blink. It has been years since Severus has used Legilimens on him but something is wrong and Draco does not shy away from the other man's gaze.

If whatever is wrong with his mentor requires Legilimens he will not block the other's access.

But Draco doesn't feel the presence of another's thoughts, the slinking feeling of someone moving into his mind and he blinks, looking away.

"Why are you here? What do you want?" Severus asks quietly.

Draco looks over and raises an eyebrow. "Who says I want anything?"

A scowl, flickering across the man's features. "Don't play with me."

Draco slowly nods, "Of course." He pauses, wondering if what he says next is going to cause the other man to react…badly.

"I need the original text on _Sanguinis Vinculum_."

A pause. Draco can almost feel the cutting of Severus' razor-like focus.

He can also feel when the focus wavers and the gaze slowly retracts.

Not the response he was expecting.

"I was waiting for you to ask," Severus says.

Draco does not react outwardly. Inwardly he is a mass of confusion.

Severus rises from his chair and goes over to the part of the library containing all the books Severus own on the Dark Arts. It is extensive, charmed not only to be hidden from a casual glance, but also to appear much small than it actually is.

He pulls a thin book off the tall shelf, hand stroking the cover absently before turning and heading back to the fireplace and the man sitting there watching him.

Severus hands the books to Draco.

It's the same book he'd given him ten years ago.

The book warms in Draco's hand and he knows the magic within it, the darkness, the shadows, are responding to what flows through his blood, what flares, ever constant anymore, at the point on his chest.

"You knew Hermione was going to come to this conclusion?" Draco asks, staring down at the book.

He doesn't realise the use of her name.

Severus does. Though he doesn't say anything.

"It was only logical. You would have come to the same conclusion."

Draco looks up from the book and nods. "Of course."

The sudden appearance of the sun through curtained windows causes a glow around Draco, glinting on his hair, on his high cheekbones, on the deep bruises that suddenly seem so very apparent.

And on the red stone on his hand.

It's the stone that catches Severus' eye and holds it, darkness narrowing slightly.

But he doesn't comment on it. Not now.

"Are you staying for supper?"

Draco shakes his head and gets up, pulling the cloak from the back of the chair and around his shoulders. "No. Prior engagements." He looks up at the older man and nods once. "Thank you Severus," he says and then leaves, the library, the house, and Disapparates.

He arrives at Hogwarts but instead of going to find Hermione, like he had said he would, he makes his way to the rooms prepared for him earlier in the week.

He wants to go through the book.

Alone.

At least at first.


	9. Chapter 9

Flesh. A whisper of lips over the sharp knife of a collarbone, fluttering, fluttering, a staccato of blood under fingertips.

A gasp.

Hands, moving over skin, coolness, warmth, the spot, just below the rib cage, a falling piece of hair, white against velvet skin, so soft, a moan at the nature of it, at the feel of the strands moving over skin, trailing with lips, with tongue, a nip of teeth along the smoothness of an inner thigh.

Aching.

The sound of her breath, sharp, fingers grasping lean shoulders, digging, bruising, brushing away with a palm, with a wrist.

A sigh, a flicker, a twist of lips, tongue, hands roaming, roaming, up a curved hip, cradling the skin, cherish, breath…

in and out...

Bowing backwards, exposing to exploring hands, gentle but with a side of demand, a side of now, finally, just now, just at this moment, a whisper in the darkness…

Draco wakes to the moon.

* * *

Hermione walks the passageways of Hogwarts, an endless walk, back and forth, feeling the burn, the slow rise of heat, the flush along her cheeks, hand clenching in her robes and then the sudden complete lack of everything.

Empty.

So much crueler than the cold.

Tears track down her cheeks.

The portraits notice.

But they say nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione places the tea in front of George.

She sits in the chair next to him and smiles absently at Lily who climbs into her lap. Her arms come around the seven-year-old, laying her chin on the top of the dark head of Harry's firstborn. She smells of soap, of powder and something sweet underlining it.

She is almost too big to sit on laps.

Almost.

Fleur sits across from them, holding little Ronald in her arms, Bill sitting next to her with their son Zion.

Arthur paces back and forth.

The sound of the Weasley clock ticking. The sound of water dripping in the sink.

And then a flurry of sound as Molly rushes downstairs in a flush, smiling greatly at everyone.

"Is she…?" Arthur asks, clearly shaken.

Molly waves a hand, "No, no, not yet, these things take time, especially without magic, which that fool girl has insisted on. Can you believe having a baby, a big baby at that, without any magic?"

She continues to mutter as she gathers some things from underneath the sink.

It's an argument Hermione has been privy to for the last fourth months and will be glad to never hear again.

She catches George's eyes next to her and he smiles knowingly. He has also been privy to the argument between Molly and her youngest.

Molly disappears from the kitchen, hands full of unidentifiable things.

Hermione tightens her arms around Lily, feeling the surge in magic from upstairs. It clenches around her middle, a rush of power that she has long since recognized as Harry's.

An elemental magic. Boundless.

Primitive.

Once she could not feel it but it surges through her and the little girl sitting in her lap.

Hermione closes her eyes, allowing the girl to snuggle further into her.

"You could go to bed. I'll wake you if there is any change." A worried voice, so different then what it once was.

Hermione opens her eyes. She looks over at George and smiles slightly, shaking her head. "I don't think I could sleep, not with those bursts of magic from Harry."

George nods. He too feels them, albeit a lot less than her. It is part of being a twin, a closer connection to the elemental magic, to the blood magic.

Hermione's heart aches for him, searching his face without realizing she is doing it. There are lines falling away from his eyes, a sombre blue where they were once so mischievous.

"I'm ok." He answers her without the question.

She feels a warming around her heart, noticing that his hair, never quite as red as the rest of the family, has gotten blonder while in South America and his skin has a healthy glow. He'd been studying ancient magical runes there, the joke shop long since sold.

"I'm glad your home," she says without thinking about her words.

A pause and then George nods. "I am too."

Another burst of magic. Lily whimpers slightly and Hermione tightens her arms once more, closing her eyes again and focusing on channelling some of the magic away from the young girl, absorbing it, letting it fill and warm, feeling when Lily slips into sleep.

"She feels it strongly," Bill says from where he sits.

Hermione keeps her eyes closed for a moment, inhaling Lily's scent. She knows Bill is not accusing, knows he is just stating something. But she can't help the sharp spike of irritation at him, underlined by the ever present guilt.

She opens her eyes and meets his across the table.

He continues. "Stronger than others."

Hermione has theories on that, theories she has never said out loud and won't.

Bill does not feel the magical bursts, either does Fleur or Arthur. None of them, except perhaps Molly with her mother's love, and George, for being half of a whole, a whole that was shattered.

She can't stay.

Holding a now sleeping Lily in her arms, Hermione gets up from her chair. Several different Weasley eyes focus on her.

"I'm going to put her to bed," she says quietly.

She is glad none of them can read her, that at least in this group she is able to hide what she is actually thinking, what she is actually doing.

"You need any help?" George asks.

Hermione shakes her head. The girl, so small for her age, is light in her arms and though Hermione is also a slight witch she doesn't have a problem holding her.

"I'm fine." She pauses, considers, and then continues. "I am going to go back to Hogwarts, get some work done rather than sitting here. Floo me as soon as he's born." She directs this to George who will understand, not to the others, who won't.

He nods and she gives him another slight smile.

She turns and leaves the Weasley family, taking the stairs to the third floor where she opens Lily's door with a foot.

Placing the sleeping girl in the bed Hermione pauses, smoothing away the dark strands from the girl's cheeks, fanning it out on the white pillow. Even in the moonlight peaking from between the curtains Hermione can see the shadow of the child's magic, weaving in and out with the normal colours of magic, the colours that she has long learned to identify and categorize.

Lily smiles in her sleep, a small fist coming up and resting along a pale cheek, twisting her body into a curled position on her side.

A searing pain, along Hermione's chest cavity, causing a harsh inhale of air.

Eyes dry as she looks down on Harry's oldest child and her Goddaughter.

_What if, what if…_

The thought curling around her brain before she can cut it off, before she can slice it with clean precision.

Taking one last look at the girl, Hermione turns from the room and quietly makes her way back downstairs, pausing at the second landing to feel the magic there, Harry's, Molly's, and underneath that the vibrant and throbbing magic of a new mother and a new child about to be born.

Into the world.

She had sullied.

Ten years prior.

She continues downstairs to the front door, not noticing the shadow there until it catches at her arm.

Hermione turns in surprise, not fear, but ready, only to relax at George's familiar face.

His hand stays on her arm. "All right Hermione?" He asks and his voice is concerned, and something else.

"Yes, just," she thinks about lying and decides not to, "I can't be here for this, not this time."

George's other hands comes up and with a finger lifts her chin with the tip, angling it so the moon is full on her face.

"Bill didn't mean anything by it."

She wonders when Ron's older brother got so observant.

She wonders at the sudden flash of emotion in his eyes.

"I know," she replies.

The finger turns to a hand, cupping her chin, her cheek, thumb rubbing the skin there.

"You're not ok," he says and suddenly Hermione is aware of the man in front of her. Very aware.

"Harry said he found you at Ron's grave," he continues, thumb still against her cheek.

She doesn't know what to say so she says nothing.

"It's been ten years Hermione." The thumb moves down, feather touch against her lips.

Hermione feels the tingle, the sharp and sudden tear at her gut, "It doesn't matter," she whispers, "I can't forget no more than you can."

He doesn't wince, just nods, slowly, his eyes catching hers, "I think about him every day, both of them, Fred and Ron, my brothers. Sometimes it's like I can still feel Fred, like he's there, at my side, talking about the newest joke, prank." A grimace more than a smile, "The newest way to cause Mum grief."

His eyes had lost focus, memories of times long past and people not to return, but he returns, looking down on her with intensity. Hermione meets his eyes, "But my life is not on hold," he says gently, ever so gently.

His lips descend on hers before she can think on it, a small pressure, light, tentative, asking permission.

It is sweet, it has been coming for several years, a trust born between them out of a shared grief. Achingly sweet.

Some things change, some things never do.

Honesty. Bravery.

A Gryffindor.

It would be so easy to give in to the warmth, to give into the arms wrapping their way around her. To be warm, to allow something to hold her up, tell her its ok, tell her its all going to be ok.

Hermione puts a hand on George's chest, spreading her fingers and then slightly pushes. His head comes up, his gaze locks with hers.

She tries for a smile. "I can't George. Not now, maybe," she swallows, "Maybe after I fix this, maybe then, but not now."

Hermione knows the man George has become and she is not surprised when he smiles lightly and caresses her cheek before stepping back. "I understand Hermione. I will Floo when Ginny gives birth."

She gives him a smile, a true smile, albeit sad. "Thank you."

Hermione watches him disappear into the house and then she closes her eyes and, with a great strength of will, Disapparates to Hogwarts.

The lack of elemental magic is the first thing she notices.

The second is the complete stillness of the night around her, so dark, so very dark, the sky over head heavy with clouds, pregnant with moisture, invisible, but hiding the moon, the stars.

A blanket. A cloak.

Darkness.

And the cold.

She starts towards the gates, snow crunching under her feet.

A hand on the cold cast iron, pushing in the gate.

Her fingers wrapping around the metal for a moment, letting the cold sear her palm, anchoring her, reminding her.

With the elemental magic no longer echoing, banging, barging at her barriers, she finds her mind is tired, beyond tired, moving on to exhaustion. The battle against Harry's magic, against what is Ginny's magic, against Lily sitting in her lap, a barrage of magic against barriers that are so fragile in the first place.

So very fragile.

She lets go of the gate and steps onto Hogwarts property. The wind whips around her, curling into her cloak, wrapping itself around her body, lifting free hair from her neck, stroking, stroking.

Hermione shivers at it, relishing in it.

The magic at the Potter's was so hot, so demanding, sparks of too much, flashes too bright.

She prefers the dark, even more than the shadow, something soothing, something completely free about the lack of sight.

Feel alone, smell, touch, liquid touch, but no sight, no way to see faces, expression, no way of knowing except for the ripple of thought, of magic.

Something she knows George would never understand.

She reaches the stone steps of the castle and climbs them slowly.

She feels the shadow against the stone even before the shadow separates from the wall.

Hermione stills in mid–step, acutely aware that her barriers are not what they should be; too much has battered them on this night.

"Professor Granger," a baritone of velvet, sliding across her skin.

She shivers and hopes he can't see it, knowing he probably doesn't have to see it, he probably can feel it, around the shards of her protective guise.

Feel as it wretches across those shards.

Cutting. Causing it to bleed.

"Out rather late for a school night."

She can't make out his face but knows he is smirking, knows the right side of his mouth is raised slightly and that his eyes are mocking.

For some reason this doesn't anger her, though she desperately wants it to.

But instead of the heat of anger, all she feels is the cold of the wind, whispering around her.

Whispering, whispering.

He steps further from the shadow, closer to her, and she can just make out the lines of his features, the jaw line, the high cheekbone.

"I had business," she responds.

"The Potter wife having her child, yes I know," he says, sneers, the emphasis on wife clear.

The flame of anger flickering along her nerves.

He steps closer.

The wind whirls around them.

The anger dies.

"Yes," she replies.

A tilted head, still only apparent by the line of his jaw. "So, she had him?"

"No." The word out before she can stop it.

Another step.

"But then, Professor Granger, why are you here and not there?"

He is less than a foot away from her and she has to look upwards, tilting her head, unable to make out his features fully.

A shadowy line, a shadowy image.

The edge of his cloak, black cloak, almost invisible in the darkness, lifts with the wind, the hem touching hers, swirling around her legs, dancing, swirling together, for just a moment, before the wind dies and the cloaks fall back into place.

"I am not needed there," she replies.

She knows he raises an eyebrow though she can't see it. But she can almost feel it, just a changing in the air, slightly.

Unknowingly she pulls her lower lip between her teeth and her hand curls on itself.

"Are you biting your lip Professor?" The voice, oh gods, the voice, and how did he know?

"Because I think you are," the tone dropping, dropping to circle with the cold, with the air, frigid in her lungs.

"Because I think you don't know what to do," he continues, "And when you don't know what to do you bite your lip." A pause, a breath, "Or you twirl your quill, but you have no quill with you Professor." A shift in air, "Controlling yourself, isn't that what it means? When you do that." A whisper, "Pulling your lip in between those teeth, causing pressure, focus, a small pain, leading to control."

He is not moving towards her, no, no more moving forward, to do so would cause their bodies to collide.

It doesn't matter.

She can feel him, feel the presence in the dark, magic moving around him, gliding about his person and she can smell him, a smell, she remembers with a clutch in her gut, a stab at the base of her spine, a smell that has not changed.

"So, why did you leave the Potter's? Is it really because you are not needed there, or maybe it's something else." He pauses, silence weighing down, pressing down. And then quieter, almost a breath. "Something having to do with a magic you don't want to witness, a tinged magic, a shadowed magic, tainted."

Hermione's lip is almost bleeding and his words causes her to bite down harder, cutting off the whimper, cutting off something else, rising upwards from the cold stone under her feat, gliding, gliding, up her form, settling somewhere deep in her womb, spreading outwards.

Cold. Darkness.

And a white heat she never knew could burn so accurately.

"What is the truth, Professor?" His voice touches her, she can feel it skim along her nerves, stroking.

She lets her lip fall from her teeth, swallowing, once, twice, counting her breath, controlling it, though she knows he can probably hear it in the silence of the night, in the silence of the dark, a rattling of breath. Desperate.

"I told you the truth," she replies.

Another smirk she can't make out but which she knows its there, on his face, a foot away from her, so close, so very close that their cloaks touch again and leap back, touching, moving back, circling in the wind.

"You're a horrible liar," he says. Her breath hitches at the almost tender tone to his voice.

Lifting her chin then, eyes narrowing, fighting against what is happening, not knowing what is happening, but knowing she needs to fight it. "I am not lying," she says.

A low chuckle, deep in his chest, causing ripples, ripples that move outwards from him, enveloping, folding, caressing against her. She can almost feel the hair at her temple move from them.

Thought that's not possible.

And a part of her knows that.

"Ah Hermione, always the fierce one," and this time the tone is decidedly tender and she leans forward, towards him, something in that tone calling her, coaxing her.

To lose herself in the darkness, in the cold, with the heat.

A decidedly different desire then the one she had earlier, standing in a different place, with a different person.

Leaning.

And then the air whirls, the form moves, the shadows blink, darkness sighs, and he has stepped back, leaving nothing, indifference.

The base of her spine screams.

"I believe, Professor, you should be in bed; after all, you do have class tomorrow." A smirk, along the side of his face. She can almost hear the muscles moving, his lips moving. "I will not detain you any longer."

She can't see him bow, but she hears the rustle of his robes, and then the placement of booted footsteps on the stone, then the crunch of snow.

Moving, away.

Hermione whirls and runs up the rest of the stairs, the large entrance door slamming closed in her haste to get away, to get far away.

When she is once more safe in her rooms, shaking in front of a fireplace, arms wrapped around her there is light click on her window, causing her to jump.

Swearing to herself she moves to the window, opening it to let in a perfectly black owl, parchment tied around its leg, dark eyes staring at her expectantly.

She opens the parchment with shaking hands, vaguely realizing the owl does not wait for a reply.

_I have the spell._

Written in slashes of black.

Distinct.


	11. Chapter 11

Much, much later, Hermione sits in a chair in front of the fire, blanket wrapped around her.

In one hand a parchment.

On her lap, a red stone, glittering against black fabric.

A stone which a man, who currently walks the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, would recognize instantly.

A conversation.

Remembering.

Hermione sat on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. The feeling of tiredness, of exhaustion, of just wanting this whole thing to be over with, to not have to worry about it, not have to wake up every night and every morning, just to repeat the actions.

Over and over again.

Months of trying to find horcruxes, trying to discover, defeat, plan, and then starting over again, again and again.

Snape speaking, low, methodical, a voice that could put her to sleep.

Her eyes heavy, itching from dryness.

"Why him?" the words sneered in a pretty good imitation of disgust on Ron's part.

She didn't even look his way, staring straight ahead at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

"Why not me?" these words whinged, making her cringe.

The tones again, soothing, a testament to the changes that the words were not snapped. "Because you will be with me, along with the other Order members, keeping the Death Eaters from them."

Harry, speaking up, voice entirely different then what it was five months prior. "Malfoy's a better duellist, he should be the one fighting," a pause and she knew Harry was looking at Ron, "Sorry mate."

Ron's red head, she saw him nod out of the corner of her eye, freckles standing out against his paler skin. "It's true. I stink at duels, you know it, we all know it, so I don't understand why it has to be him, bullocks, I don't even understand why it has to be her."

This time Hermione didn't fight the urge to close her eyes, she did.

Closed she saw swirls of colour.

"Male and female, light, dark," Snape again, explaining, again. "Duality, it's the nature of it."

She wondered idly when his patience for Ron and the situation would snap.

"Ok, got it," Ron grimaced.

She could hear the expression on his face, through closed eyes. She knew he was running a hand through his hair, a habit that he had picked up lately from Harry.

It tugged her heart even though she couldn't see it.

So young.

All of them.

"And the other reason," Snape continued.

Hermione opened her eyes and tilted her head, resting her cheek on her knees, looking over where the tall ex-professor, in all his black glory, stood. He looked haggard, dark circles under his eyes. The constant stress of being a Death Eater, being an Order Member, of guilt over Dumbledore's death, all taking its toll on the man who was now, more than ever, essential to the defeat of Voldemort.

Her ex-professor had become very important.

And that ex-professor was staring at the white haired boy who sat in the corner with a look almost soft, almost tender.

Hermione's eyes moved from the tall dark man and rested on Malfoy, the bane of her existence at Hogwarts, a pure-blood, an aristocrat who once despised her because of her heritage.

His face was carefully blank, watching as if a spectator and not part of what was taking place.

The Slytherin prince. Malfoy Heir.

Titles.

Now, a forced ally, and something more, developed through countless hours of study, of stress, lack of sleep, and this, a decision, made the night prior.

A desperate decision she didn't clearly understand.

Just the result, the end result.

And that she wasn't even sure of.

Ron was looking back and forth between Snape and Malfoy, clear dislike etched into his features. Harry was looking on with a little less dislike and more forbidding. He didn't know exactly what Hermione and Malfoy had found, but he understood his deep-seated distrust of his former school mate, despite the countless examples of Malfoy's loyalty.

The distrust was warring with his absolute trust and love of the girl sitting on the couch.

"Then what is this other reason?" Ron barked out.

Hermione was staring at Malfoy, at the silver eyes clearly not showing any emotion, not letting anyone into the carefully placed persona he had developed in the last several months.

Perhaps it was only her who noticed the slight clench of one fist.

"The Dark Arts," she replied for them.

All eyes turned towards her but she kept her gaze firmly locked with the sudden silver glare from across the room.

"What?" Ron.

"What do you mean, Mione?" Harry.

She didn't move her cheek from her knees, her arms holding them to her chest. She spoke to the boy who held her gaze as if in a vice, "Because of the Dark Arts. He already knows them, already has used them." Not looking away, all her focus on the boy across the room, tired so tired, and continued. "Dark and light, you can't do it Ron because you have not touched it."

She knew she was right, she knew it when she had decided on the decision last night, at the time sitting close to the white haired boy in front of the fire, bent over the same text, so close she'd felt his own heat, smelled his slightly spicy and all together expensive scent.

"Touched what?" Ron.

"Darkness," she replied, her voice so quiet it almost didn't stretch across the room.

A slight twitch, along the boy's jaw line.

She saw it.

If no one else did.

The room so quiet she could hear breathing and then…

"Ten points to Gryffindor," from the former Potions Master.

It was a mute gesture, but meant much.

Hermione smiled at it, even if Ron and Harry did not.

"Is it the only way?" This time it was Harry asking, and in his voice, something close to panic.

Hermione closed her eyes again, reminded distinctly of the boy she'd met six years prior, the already fearsome presence, with his glasses, bright green eyes, and that scar, that stupid, stupid scar.

Something twisted in Hermione's stomach and she felt like being sick, feeling the nausea rise up in her throat, overwhelming her senses.

_Why us?_

The thought, the question, just a glimmer in her mind, but real, substantial, a true and honest question spoken from somewhere deep in her mind, pulsing with the steady rhythm of her heart.

"I believe it's the only way," Snape answered and his voice was almost gentle. Almost.

A pause, a silence, heavy with a question.

Harry finally asked it. "This won't hurt her? Whatever this spell is, it won't hurt Hermione?"

Hermione did not open her eyes, concentrating on the swirl of colour behind closed eyelids, breathing, steady, pulse of magic deep in her blood.

"She will be perfectly safe."

Ex-professor, Death Eater, Order Member, murderer of Dumbledore, Saviour…

…lied and the colours behind Hermione's eyelids turned to grey.

If only for a moment.


	12. Chapter 12

_"That is what deconstruction is made of: not the mixture but the tension between memory, fidelity, the preservation of something that has been given to us, and, at the same time, heterogeneity, something absolutely new, and a break." J. Derrida_

A knock.

He knows it is coming, is waiting for it, staring out over a white landscape and a sky just registering the pink of day.

When he disables his wards and opens the door, he is not surprised to see the curly haired witch in front him. He notices the dark circles, the tension along her jaw line, the dry and direct eyes.

The slight tilt of her chin.

None of this surprises him.

He steps back from the door, just to the side of it, movement of white linen the only sound in the room, the slight rub of black trousers.

He doesn't say a word.

She walks past him trailing just a hint of lavender.

That goes straight to his gut, clenching it, tighter and tighter.

She disappears through a door.

Turning, he leans his forehead on the stone wall, for a moment, just a moment, then straightens, reassembling his wards with a flick of the wrist as he follows the witch into the sitting room.

There is a fire burning where there wasn't a moment ago.

She sits in one of the chairs in front of it, black cloak hanging on the chair behind her, arms wrapped up in a Muggle jumper and Muggle jeans.

She looks young, achingly young, staring into the flames with a blank expression, reminding him, reminding him of the girl at the Burrow, the witch who had…

He stops himself in mid-thought.

_Tired. Must be tired._

_Exhausted_

Draco moves from the entrance way to the other chair, looking at her before sitting. "Do you want tea?"

The first words spoken.

Echoing. Echoing.

"Please." A voice, quiet, gentle.

It's as if someone punches him in the gut and for a moment he sees darkness. Shadow. Black. Blessed peace.

And then reality.

She is looking at him now, eyes focusing, cataloguing.

He hopes he has kept his face blank. But knows it probably doesn't matter.

The connector, throbbing, even as he backtracks, covering it, muting it, though he wishes he could silence it.

He orders tea.

And then sits. Waiting.

He has not slept. After reading the book, after meeting her the night before (or was it this morning?) he walked the Forbidden Forest for no other reason than it was dark, it was quiet, and something about the darkness and the quietness pulled at him.

Peace.

It is a foreign concept to him. Has always been a foreign concept but for one moment in time, one moment ten years prior.

A teaser, a taste.

He longs for it with a pain slicing through every nerve.

Though for many years he has refused to see it, feel it, acknowledge it.

Now it is back, horrid, final.

The tea comes, house elves placing it on the table between the witch and the wizard. They leave as fast they can, two identical pair of eyes shifting nervously between the two persons sitting in the room, not understanding the layers of emotion wavering, pulling, only understanding the direct threat, the danger in it.

They disappear with a pop.

Hermione turns and pours the tea. Her cup, one sugar and milk, his cup only milk.

Exactly as he likes it.

Her face perfectly blank, her breathing normal, eyes adverted.

Hand shaking just slightly, ever so slightly, as she hands over his tea.

He takes it, careful not to touch her.

The sound of flames, leaping in the fireplace, the sound of wind whistling through the small cleaves in the castle walls. The sound of a teacup being placed on the table, and then the slight rustle of movement, fabric.

"The book?" She asks.

Draco stares in front of him, watching the oranges and yellows, counting, one breath in, one breath out, and then nods, placing his own tea down and rising from the chair.

Feline, graceful, movement minimum with maximum effect, he doesn't realize he does it, but Hermione does and though nothing escapes her lips she feels the moan low in her throat, in her chest, spreading, wider and wider.

When he disappears into the bedroom she closes her eyes.

_Focus. Focus._

_A purpose._

She opens her eyes, looking down at her tea, picking it up with a steadier hand than before. Sipping. Liquid warm on her tongue, on her lips.

_Focus._

He returns with the book. A small leather book, held in his hand, cradling it, one thumb absently rubbing the cover.

Hermione bites her lip and then takes another sip of tea to cover it, the memory of his words echoing almost immediately in her mind.

He hands her the book before settling himself back down in the chair.

This time the hand that takes the book visibly shakes.

"You've read it." A statement more than a question, directed towards the man who now sips his own tea.

She doesn't see him nod. She is looking at the leather book she holds, the book she last saw ten years ago.

Vibrating in her hand, recognizing her, something in her.

As it had Draco days earlier.

The implications so complex, so confused, she doesn't know how to understand them or even where to start.

But she is here to understand so she opens the cover, staring down at the pages before she starts to read.

Memories, circling around on themselves, circling, around and around, touching, flickering, smoothing away, caressing.

_Focus._

Draco watches her, head tilted down over the book, curls falling around her face, just barely hiding her features. But just barely, more framing, outlining the delicateness.

He can just make out the small smattering of freckles across her nose.

A vice-like grip around his middle, in his chest, squeezing, tighter, tighter.

He looks away, first at the fire, and then towards the window, the sun glaring through the glass.

He stands. Unable to sit still.

A testament to her focus that she doesn't even flinch, doesn't look up.

For some reason this causes the vice to lessen, just a moment.

Some things change. Some things do not.

He goes to the window, placing a hand against the cold glass. It's sharp, frigid, palm gathering the cold, transferring it into his skin, his nerves, the bones there.

Each small bone absorbing the chill.

In another time, he had stood at another window and watched a storm rage outside in blinding whiteness, barely a hint of daylight penetrating the black clouds overhead, the white falling insistently, demanding.

He'd looked away from the window only when the insistent sound of her quill had stopped, looked over with curiosity. She'd been staring at him; eyes that were not yet shuttered, that were still open and honest, not yet tainted, had locked with his and held.

He'd heard a roaring of blood in his head, at the naked look of…what? At the time he saw it as a realization, but since then, looking back on the scene, seeing the way her eyebrows had furrowed together creating that line between her eyes, he's realized it was not realization but an epiphany.

Not for the first time he wonders what the epiphany had been.

A small sound, merely a whisper, something he shouldn't even hear. He turns and sees she's closed the book and is staring at him.

Not epiphany in her gaze now. No, they are past the ability for epiphany, moved on to something else, something he can not define and refuses to try.

But in her gaze, more open then it has been since he saw her in the library the first time, he sees truth.

Panic, fear, yes, but also knowledge, excitement, curiosity, and, tilting his head just slightly and not realizing it, gentleness.

A different time, the same roaring of blood in his head.

He shuts down the reaction just as quickly as it comes.

A testament to the years.

A testament to who he is and has become.

Hermione sees nothing of his reaction on his face, just the slight tilt to his head that causes the morning sun to glint on the white strands of his hair.

She looks down at the book, her hand tightening into a fist in her lap.

He moves back across the room, seating himself once more in front of the fire. His hand throbs from the contact of the window and then tingles as warmth invades the tips and moves downwards.

"It's the protective field," she finally says, breaking the silence of the room. "The field we created through the spell to protect Harry when the last horcrux…" a pause, "So he could destroy it and so he could remain whole and to allow the - " she searches for words, "playing field to exist so the battle between him and Voldemort could take place."

Hermione watches his face, the profile, highlighted in the sun, the fire.

She knows he remembers all this, the reason behind it, but she has to state it.

The actions, reasons behind actions.

And consequences.

She continues, "It has created," she pauses, unsure how to state it, "It created a dimension, no," she pauses again, growing frustrated, taking a deep breath, "It created a bridge between the polar opposites, a grey area."

He looks over at her then, "Polar opposites?"

Hermione nods, "Muggle term, but yes, the whole spell is based on opposites, directly opposed pieces. The usual, of course, male and female, light and dark, but not so normal, and," Another pause, "Us."

Draco narrows his gaze on her, not because she is saying anything he doesn't understand, but because she is biting her lip and the pain at that point in his chest is almost unbearable.

She continues, "A bit like Muggle magnets I think, polar opposites, they repel if a positive is put with a positive, but put a positive and a negative together…" She lets her sentence trail off.

Silence.

And then she meets his eyes, "We've always been like that Draco," she says quietly, so quietly, not stumbling over his name, just saying it, as if she had never stopped.

A whirling of shadow.

Darkness.

"Always explosive, opposites, you and I, Gryffindor and Slytherin, Muggle-born and Pure-Blood. I think Severus understood that. I think it was another reason, maybe even the most important reason, why you and I were the only ones who could do this. Oppositions, in everything, in what you believed in, what I believed in, thoughts, feelings, direct and utter ends of the spectrum."

Draco hears the words, watches them fall from her mouth, pass that slightly swollen bottom lip.

He looks from those lips and up to her eyes, not surprised to find they are liquid, staring at him. Not surprised they are expressive.

She wants him to understand what she is saying. She wants him to know that she is not only talking about what they did, about how they did it or why it had to be them, but something else.

Something more than that.

An explanation for then and for now.

She is explaining that her stubbornness, her strength of will, barriers, whatever she may call them, they are failing her, and now she is asking him to do what she cannot, to ask him to step away this time, to stop whatever hunt he has begun.

She has lost in her use of strength.

Now she is using her weakness.

Anger.

Brilliant.

Murderous.

And Hermione sees it, the quicksilver eyes hardening, hardening to the point of steel, a silver shined steel.

_Run_

An instinctive thought.

But his eyes hold her there, lance her to the spot, as if his hands were pushing her down, in place, unable to move, just as if he'd cast an _Imperious curse_ on her, and she can't move, she can't look away, meeting that cold gaze, that terrible cold gaze.

Legilimens, she feels it, but it's not like the one other time she'd been invaded unwillingly, when Ron had done it to her in an abrupt movement of distrust, no, this is different.

Ron's was a clumsy and harsh mistake, with the pain of someone bludgeoning one in the face.

This is precise.

A cold blade, just barely touching. The point barely there, gliding.

Liquid.

Coolness moving with painful precision.

And she can't stop it.

Her mind not responding, barriers no longer in place.

Everything open.

And the feeling of it, the complete nature of it.

_Oh Merlin, oh gods_

Moving, stroking, hot nerves soothed over in frigid chill, curling, dipping.

A caress.

It makes her want to weep.

A focus, so intense, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but his mind, darkness, shadows, gliding, a touch so slight.

A bloom of pain, slowly. Slowly.

Her mind gasps with it.

And then the gaze is gone.

"Leave." The voice quiet.

Hermione catches her breath, the effect of one word spinning, spinning her mind, the room. No air, can't breath, struggling, struggling.

Chaos.

And empty. So incredibly horribly empty.

"Draco…" She starts.

"Professor Granger," he cuts her off, "Please leave my presence."

It's the please that breaks her momentary paralyzation, such a word spoken in such a voice.

She gains her feet, grabbing her cloak, moving two steps, quickly, unsteady.

The voice stops her.

"Take the book."

Hermione turns, staring at Draco's profile, perfectly blank, appearing as if he is sitting having a nice morning tea, long lean body in black trousers and a white linen shirt, relaxed, causal, hands lying easily on the chair arms.

She catches sight of the red stone on his hand, a red stone held in place by a scroll of silver, snakes, two snakes, holding the stone in their mouths.

The stone pulses, the red almost black, pulsing, growing, deepening.

A whimper, a strangled sound of a wounded animal.

Coming from her throat.

She grabs the book and flees.


	13. Chapter 13

The door to her quarters slams behind her.

One step, another step, and then…

Fury. Burning. Flaming.

How dare he?

She stills, hands closing and opening, closing and opening. Poised. Ready.

How dare he?

Body moving before the mind makes up it's mind, turning, energy pulsing and ricocheting off her, off the stone walls, her own magic, shadows and colour combined, twirling, madly, madly.

She reaches the doors leading back, to confront, to demand, hand up to push it open, to confront him, darkness rising up in her, taking over, filling and the chill is blessed, is perfect, so very perfect.

The sound of the Floo.

Behind her.

"Hermione?" A voice, gentle, questioning, normal.

And suddenly all the magic that she is gathering around her, nurturing in her anger is gone, not even smouldering.

Just gone.

She turns from the door and looks at George's head floating in the green flame.

His eyes immediately grow concerned, "Are you ok?"

How to answer? Is she ok?

A pause. Seconds. Merely.

She walks towards the fireplace. Heavy feet, laden down.

She reaches the Floo and kneels on the stone in front of it.

Tired.

With a normal tone she answers. "I'm fine George, just a long night. Did Ginny have her baby?"

George nods, though his eyes still watch her, scanning her face, but there is nothing to see, not any more, she truly is just tired now. Exhausted.

"A few minutes ago."

Hermione smiles, slightly, tilt of her mouth. "I will come through in a moment."

George pauses, reddish blonde hair glinting in the green flame, "You're sure you're ok."

Hermione leans forward and reaches her hand through, touching his cheek, anchoring herself, cool palm against his heated skin. The contact surprises him but he does not pull away.

The faint echo of his magic coming through the contact.

A glimmer in the otherwise empty field of her own.

She lets her hand drop. "I am. Just let me change clothes, I will be through in a moment."

He nods, and then disappears, green flames replaced by normal ones.

Hermione stands, staring.

And because the fury she felt has left nothing, a barren waste field in its wake, she does what she can only do, she falls back into the role of Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's friend, Ron's ex-lover, Lily's Godmother, brilliant witch.

It allows her to shower, to change clothes, to pull her hair into a braid at the back of her head, and to Floo to the Potter's without so much as a tinge of thought.

A bare and open wound.

On fire as soon as she steps through.

Piercing pain.

Elemental magic.

Blood magic.

One step into the kitchen, whirling, whirling, body screaming, nerves screaming.

And darkness.

Gathering her up in its arms and pressing her against its coldness.

Hermione Granger collapses in front of three startled Weasleys and one Harry Potter holding his newborn son in his arms.

Hermione wakes to a small hand patting her cheeks.

Opening gritty eyes, hot and dry, she sees Lily looking down at her, eyes concerned, too concerned for one so young.

"You fainted Aunt Hermny," the little voice says, the special pronunciation of Hermione's name causing something in the older witch to twist painfully.

But she doesn't understand.

Nothing is making sense.

And why is she lying in a bed?

"What happened?" She asks, throat dry, painfully so.

Lily smiles then, a quirk to her mouth that lights up her face. "I have to go get Daddy and Uncle George, supposed to when you wake up."

Hermione nods and struggles to sit up. The light weight of Lily falls from the bed and the girl runs from the room, dark hair streaming out behind her.

The sound of small footsteps and then the sound of two, no three, heavy sets of footsteps.

Harry is the first one through the door, followed by George and then Molly.

Hermione vaguely realizes Molly fussing about her, vaguely realizes George looking at her with unconcealed worry, but her eyes are focused on her long term friend.

Harry is angry.

His brilliant green eyes bite with it.

Hermione looks away when Molly presses a glass of water in her hand. "You drink this my dear, just water is that, but here," she takes the glass and replaces it with a potion bottle, "This is just a bit of Pepper Up to revive you. Whatever happened my dear, you just, you look like a ghost, I swear…"

Molly would have continued, Hermione knows it even as she dutifully drinks down the potion.

But Harry cuts her off, "No need to fuss Molly." He looks over at George and then back to his mother-in-law, "Can I have a word with Hermione?"

George leaves immediately, but Molly looks over at Harry in surprise, something about his voice catching her interest. "Now Harry, it's not Hermione's fault she fainted, and I don't know if you…"

Harry smiles at Molly, his charming smile, effective in its sincerity. "Don't worry, I'm not going to yell at her."

Hermione doesn't believe him.

Molly does though and she pats Hermione's hand before getting up from the side of the bed and leaving the room.

She closes the door softly behind her.

Hermione watches Harry.

She doesn't know what to expect. She doesn't understand the anger in his eyes. In fact she doesn't understand anything, her mind struggling to focus on anything for any amount of time.

Tired.

So tired.

Harry walks over and sits in the chair next to the bed, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees, hands dangling between his legs.

A handsome wizard with too many years in his face.

"What is going on?" The question, soft, pursuing, but still with an underline of anger.

Why is he angry?

The question is on her lips but something about his expression does not allow the question to pass them.

Hermione sits up further in the bed, the potion slowly taking its effect and though she never fully forgot what had happened earlier now it's strengthening, memory flitting here and there.

But not the feeling. Not the emotion.

Nothing.

Blank.

Waste land.

"Hermione!" An exclamation, a harsh tilt on her name.

She locks eyes with Harry.

"I'm just tired," she tells him. It's the truth.

So very tired.

Harry shakes his head in frustration, getting up from his chair suddenly and pacing the room, energy radiating off him.

Hermione can feel it, a tickling alongside her own magic.

She relishes the small tinge of magic though it is harsh against already raw nerves.

Harry turns on her, pulling a hand through dark hair. "What gives Mione? Ever since Christmas, before Christmas, you've been distant, like a shadow. We all thought you were doing ok, moving on from Ron's death, and then I find you at his grave, and during Christmas, barely there." The burst of words, accusing.

Slaps across her face.

If only verbally.

She pulls herself inwards, upwards, gathering herself.

Harry sees it, he knows her well.

"Bloody fucking hell!" An exclamation, completely out of the realm of Harry's personality, an echo of someone else.

It causes her to flinch backwards.

But the exclamation causes something in Harry to deflate and as suddenly as the anger appeared it is gone, replaced by something else.

Concern.

Love.

Him coming to her bed and sitting next to her, pulling her hands in to his, searching her face. "What is it Mione? Is it this project, with Malfoy, is it too much?"

Green eyes searching her face, searching, searching. Hermione meets those eyes, briefly, and then looks away.

"No." She says. First word, spoken in a whisper.

And because some things change and some things do not, Hermione straightens slightly, pulling on her ever present strength, broken, yes, but there if only in pieces.

She squeezes Harry's hands, smiling, stronger, building. "No," she repeats firmly, "Its not that, not entirely. It's been a little hard, because I have had to revisit some memories, but nothing I can't handle."

Harry nods slowly, "Is it Malfoy?"

A flash of memory, of the feel of his mind in hers.

A surge of desire. A surge of anger.

Gone.

Nothing.

Hermione squeezes Harry's hands again, "No. Malfoy is Malfoy, hard to work with sometimes, but it's just a combination of things. You know me, so overly sensitive sometimes."

Harry is watching her, "You know I would not ask you to do this unless it was important."

The smile that Hermione gives him is bigger this time, fuller, almost reaching her eyes. "I know Harry, I know. I really am ok, just a combination of stress and elemental magic, it's sometimes a little overwhelming since, well you know, and then the combination of you and Ginny, it was just a little much, but I'm ok now."

A look of concern, of doubt.

The smile reaches her eyes now. Finding equilibrium, "I'm fine Harry. Now," she straightens some more, moving so she can get up off the bed. "How is your wife, and the new one?"

The change of topic is instantaneously effective.

Harry's smile could light several different Muggle Londons. "Brilliant Mione, simply brilliant."

Hermione laughs and if the laugh is slightly brittle and slightly forced Harry does not notice. "Well then, I shouldn't be laying about in bed when I can meet the newest member of the family."

Harry gets up from the bed immediately, sticking out a hand to help Hermione to her feet.

She takes it and though the room spins for a moment she is able to contain it, focus it.

Control. Slowly.

She follows Harry out of the room, down the hallway, down the stairs, to the kitchen where everyone is gathered around Ginny and the baby in her arms.

Ginny looks beautiful even after the twelve hour Muggle labour, now healed with magic, red hair framing a face alight with happiness. Hermione sees the colours around her, brilliant colours of magic, of happiness, barely any shadow, any tingeing at all.

Hermione smiles at it, something easing in her chest.

Ginny sees her and flashes her a brilliant smile. "Since when, Hermione Granger, do you faint?"

The room erupts in laughter and Hermione is enough of herself to feel the slight blush along her cheekbones.

"It must have been my stunning good looks, I have that affect on young witches," another voice, George, calling out next to Ginny, his eyes amused, though still slightly concerned.

Hermione rolls her eyes, putting a hand on her hip, "Honestly," she says.

And suddenly everything is ok. Everything is normal and if she ignores the dark shadow around the newborn Potter, and the growing of her own darkness, it's because she tells herself there is a time and place for everything.

And darkness is not wanted in the happy family scene she sees in front of her.

But as the hours progress, as she is teased by George, hugged by Molly, and holds the new baby, the darkness grows in her, a steady and constant flow of her magic, rebuilding, replacing, gathering pieces, putting them together, recreating, a waste land, blasted by a certain wizard, developing, creating.

Blood magic.

Shadow tinged with red.

Growing. Growing.

And with it the fury she felt in the beginning. The anger, but also the control, her control, keeping the anger in check.

No one notices, no one wants to notice, though occasionally George shoots her a look, occasionally Harry shifts in his seat, Molly gives her more hugs than she would usually, and the baby, sensing it, the familiar even though he has only been in the world for less than a day, snuggles against her chest, his base magic recognizing hers.

And it continues.

Fluid.

Grace.

Until when she finally leaves the Potter's, Flooing back to her quarters at Hogwarts, her magic is fully restored and her anger is something brilliant to behold.

For those who know how to look.

She leaves her quarters to search out the one who will know even without looking, who will feel it even as if it were his own.

The one who, anger now swirling about her person, is the cause of it.

She relishes in the anger, moving through the passageways, passing students with a friendly look in their direction, passing other faculty with a nod, polite, distant, held in check, held in control.

She takes away points from two fighting Slytherins, she sends a sick Hufflepuff to Poppy and tells a first year Gryffindor how to get back to the Main Hall, all the while scanning, looking, her magic floating about her in waves of shadow.

Searching.

Hermione goes to his rooms first, climbing the stone stairs, the torch flames flickering slightly as she passes, the portraits watching with unconcealed interest, poised for something, knowing something is coming because they have sat so long on the walls and can, now, pick up on the slightest twirls of magic.

And Hermione's magic is more than twirling. Its vibrating.

But he is not in his quarters, she knows it as soon as she reaches the doorway, the wards glowing slightly, black and dark red, protecting from intruders.

She turns on her heels, the black cloak she wears twirling about her ankles, and makes her way back down the stairs.

She checks the Main Hall, she checks the library, she goes down to the potions classroom and checks there, to Shacklebolt's, the current head of the Slytherin house.

But he is not in any of those places.

Yet she knows he is here.

Hermione can feel him, has felt him since she came through the Floo. A vibration to her magic, like the tight lines of the magic are being softly plucked, played with a feather touch.

A distinct pressure at the base of her spine, the burn of ice at the point on her chest.

She finds herself in the entry way to the castle, staring at the heavy entrance doors, the dying sunlight of the day coming in a myriad of colours through the glass, highlighting, creating movements in the air.

It is eerily quiet.

The witch standing in the fading light is the only one in the massive room, a black cloak, a mass of curls pulled back in a half knot at the back of her head, a pale face, straight shoulders, delicate hands.

Closing her eyes.

Allowing the blood magic to rise up with hers, allowing it to swirl in reds and greys and blacks, strengthening, strengthening, a touch, a flicker, reaching, reaching.

And there. Just there.

A presence.

She opens her eyes and goes to the great doors, pulling one open and slipping out into the frigid air of a dying afternoon.

Feet moving, quickly, quickly now, over the snow, a direction, the control slipping, anger moving with a wave of the blood magic she has released, if only a small amount, enough, enough to cause the storm around her to grow, slowly, slowly.

Even as she hurries.

Small, firm steps, black cloak against the white snow.

To the Quidditch pitch.

Where she knows he is.

Alone.

Coming around a corner, over a hill, and then to the stands, slowing in step even as she gathers the warmth of fury around her, even as the pressure at her spine presses down, down, growing hotter, focusing.

She raises her eyes to the sky.

And sees him.

Distant, a figure in the air, moving with speed, with grace, flying with the same assurance of everything and anything he does. Arrogance, beauty, in the black cloaks moving about him, in the wind moving through his hair, flying with surety, depth.

It catches at Hermione, pulls at her, pulls at that something in her, at that connection, but different than just the connection, different then the compulsion allowing her to know where he is, different then the blood magic swirling in her veins.

Different.

Basic.

Primitive.

Watching him, never thinking flying could cause awe, never thinking flying could be beautiful, could be what she is seeing.

A spike of heat.

In her womb, as she watches him come closer and closer, just making out a profile in the falling light of the day, his hand about the broom.

And she remembers, remembers those hands on her skin, tracing up her thigh, cupping around her waist, fingers moving, pressing, caressing, marking.

And the anger is gone.

Replaced by sorrow, at what was, and what was lost, and a decision she made out of guilt, out of what she thought was necessity.

But wonders.

Wonders now if it was nothing more than fear, fear of the enormity of something she had never felt before. The enormity of what it could mean.

A time of chaos, long distant, and one night of clarity.

Hermione turns away.

The man flying through the gathering night does not see the small woman walking back to the castle.

Away from him.

Again.


	14. Chapter 14

Another time. Place.

She'd come to him, autumn leaves crunching under her feet as she walked towards the bench he sat on.

Her step a cautious one, hesitant, unsure of herself and her right to come to him, unsure of his reaction to her presence, unsure of many things, but the need to find him, to offer him what she could, undeniable, a heat in her bones, in her flesh, causing her to leave everyone else in the kitchen, causing her to slip out after him.

Follow him.

She knew him well, knew him better than perhaps even his Godfather, from the hours of watching him, puzzling over him, trying to explain him. Trying to match the picture of who she had always thought he was to what he was becoming, the boy who was sitting in the Weasley's garden on their bench.

But she was not analyzing then, as she came to where he sat, pausing, waiting for him to make a snide remark, waiting for him to say something harmful, caustic, forcing her away like he had so many times in the last several months.

But the boy who sat in the garden, moon turning white hair into silver, did not say a word, did not look at her, did not register her presence, staring straight ahead.

She sat down on the other end of the bench.

He could smell her, a familiar scent now combining and twining with the night air, with the smell of the coming cold, with the smell of falling leaves, with the smell of summer coming to an end and the long winter beginning.

"I'm sorry Malfoy," she said, so quietly he barely heard her.

Hesitant, it pulled at something in him, something he didn't know existed, or if he did, refused a long time ago to recognize.

Weakness.

It was what his father would have thought, what he would have called it.

But he couldn't help it from surfacing because her words were said, the tone was there, and something was achingly gentle about them, a gentleness that was breaking, tearing, forcing down the wall he had erected around himself.

And he spoke because on that night, with the moon looking down on them he could, because in that one moment it seemed like the world ceased to exist, that they were part of an enchantment, a world of magic outside of their normal world of magic.

"She loved me," the words.

Spoken in a whisper.

He saw her head move, saw the light fall in her brown eyes and in them he did not see pity, or judgment, or triumph, in them he saw softness, understanding.

So he continued, the ball of cold in his stomach physically painful, chest tight, he spoke, barely above a whisper, a rush of words, pain etched in every letter.

"She tried to protect me, when I failed, when I was brought before him, she tried to protect me, placing herself in front of me even as the curse was said; her body was writhing about in pain and her face was distorted, I could see it, like this, the moon highlighting it. I saw her face crawling with pain and I could do nothing, nothing at all, I could only stand there. I couldn't help her. I couldn't help her, and I wanted to, I needed to but nothing, there was nothing, do you understand, there was absolutely nothing I could do, and it didn't stop, it just kept on, again and again, he cursed her, and she was screaming and screaming, and I couldn't do anything, and I was hit, from behind, from I don't know - my father perhaps, probably, and suddenly I could just hear her screaming, and the pain, and the pain was so cold, but nothing was like the screaming, I couldn't see her anymore, I was blind, but I could hear her screaming, crying out, for my father, for me, crying out in love, in a love she had from the very beginning, that led her to protect me in the first place, screaming in love, do you know how that sounds? Screaming in love and then I was forced to look, my father, my father he grabbed me by the hair and I was ordered to look and I had too, I had too, and her face was bloodied, dark blood, everywhere, black, black and running down her face, out of her nose and mouth, out of her ears, and all the while she was screaming…"

And he broke off because he couldn't go on, because the sobs were coming then, dry sobs, wracking his lithe body and suddenly there were arms around him, arms that held him, pulling him closer and because she was who she was he let her pull him against her.

Whispering, over and over again, words of comfort, words that made no sense, because all he could see was his mother being tortured because of him, because of him.

And her hand was moving through his hair, coaxing him, trying to bring him back, fingers against his scalp, through the strands of white, lips fluttering down on his forehead, kissing away the beads of moisture there, kissing his closed eyes, kissing the side of his face, trying to bring him back, trying to connect, one hand moving through his hair, the other clenching at his linen shirt.

"Ok, its ok, it will be ok, Draco, it will be ok," over and over.

But the images were not done, because there was more and as if in a dream he continued.

"And then there was silence, silence, the screams just stopping and all I could hear was her gasping, on the ground, gasping, curled into a ball. My father still had me by the hair, and I was gasping, and I was crying, crying because, because he was there, in front of me and she wasn't dead, not yet, but she should have been, she should have been, but yet she wasn't and then, then my father, he brought his wand out and he pointed it at her, and then he said, he said, you have to finish this now Draco, you who have failed so utterly, you have to finish this now, and I took the wand, do you understand? Do you fucking understand? I took the wand, I took it and I killed my mother, I killed the woman who was just trying to protect me, who had spent her entire life trying to protect me against my father, against the men who were with my father, and I killed her, with a whispered word I killed her! Do you understand, I killed my mother with my father's wand, and I watched as the last bit of her blood spilt from her mouth, and her eyes, and I watched as the last bit of her breath fell between her lips."

And there was no more.

And she felt ill, down low in her stomach, and she held him because she didn't know what else to do, because she had to, because it had become about them and not only about him. And she had to help him, instinctively she had to help him, so she held him, rocking, slightly, kissing at his hairline, hands wrapping their way around his body, warming it against her own, pulling in as much of his grief as she could, telling him with murmurs of incoherent words that she heard, that she heard and she understood and she would do anything, anything at all.

And lean muscled arms came up and circled her waist, head lying on her chest.

And they sat.

There.

On the bench.

Under the autumn moon.


	15. Chapter 15

Draco meets Severus for dinner at The Three Broomsticks. He walks into the noise with graceful ease, nothing about him belying that he has spent the last several hours in the air.

Flying.

Refocusing.

He finds the other wizard at a shadowy table near the back with a clear view of the entire room, nose firmly placed in a book.

In another time it would have amused Draco, a smile would have graced his features for a moment.

But tonight is different.

Changes.

Draco slides into the seat across from Severus, placing his hands on the table, loose in front of him, face carefully blank, poise carefully relaxed.

A moment.

The sound of people, dishes.

"Have you ordered?" He asks finally.

"Yes," a muffled answer.

Draco nods and rises again, going to the bar and ordering. He glances around the room, cataloguing. He no longer looks for threats, not, at least out right, but picks up on faces, on the magic swirling around them, on their intentions, their thoughts, skimming the surface of individuals, groups.

A habit, long engrained, so very important on this night.

Volatile.

He makes his way back to the table, easing himself silently into the chair once more.

Draco waits.

His control has wavered the last few weeks, wavered, and almost toppled, but now it is back and it is with practiced nonchalance that he waits for Severus to finish whatever it is he is reading.

Waiting for the game to end.

Precious, precious control, and an iron will, fully and completely encased around the lean man with the brilliant white hair and the cold, calm eyes the colour of the northern sea.

Shifts, in a matter of hours, shifts, changes.

Draco forgot himself, and he will not do so again.

The Slytherin prince and last remaining Malfoy, titles he has re-established, he has built up from the ashes of a catastrophic war.

The name Malfoy once again indicating power, wealth, prestige, influence, and above all, illustrating the epitome of brilliance and pure-blooded lineage in the Wizarding world.

He will not forgot again.

Control.

Severus finally places his book down on the table and stairs at the younger man across from him. He immediately notices the changes.

"Draco." The silky dark voice, questioning just barely.

Draco inclines his head, torchlight catching at the perfectly groomed strands, his face a mask of indifference. "I have a favour to ask of you."

Severus smirks, but dark eyes are razor sharp. "Another one?"

Draco nods once and then pulls from the folds of his robe the ring with the bloodstone.

It swallows the dim light of the room.

Causing the red to turn black.

Draco puts it on the table, not looking at it, but rather at the man across from him. "I do not have the time, nor the inclination to rid myself of this and I am hoping you will do it for me."

Words. Cold.

Causing Severus to shift slightly.

Though it doesn't appear as if he does.

Severus does not reach for the ring, does not look at it, studying the young wizard's face, but it is an example of expressionless.

Absolutely nothing on Draco's face gives his thoughts away.

A moment.

Flickering of torchlight.

Severus looks down at the ring.

"May I inquire why it is you wish to rid yourself of this, after so many years?"

The answer is quick. "I no longer have a use for it."

Severus looks up at Draco, narrowing his gaze. "You did?"

Draco meets the eyes of his mentor, black flint and ice grey.

"Yes."

One word.

Moment. Silence. Flickering of torches, click of dishes, murmur of voices.

Moments.

"I can't help you."

Words like lead falling, catapulting through the air.

At one point Severus' answer would have caused Draco to fly off, angry, insulted, and many other things. Even four years ago, or perhaps, even yesterday, he would have let the emotion show through in his eyes, his mouth, tone of voice, tense nature of his shoulders.

Tonight he stays easily relaxed in his chair, his eyes don't even flicker, and his mouth is set in a neutral line, pale in an already pale face.

"Why?"

Tone flat.

Giving nothing away.

Tonight Severus loses the game and his face gentles, harsh features softening just slightly.

"Draco," a soft voice, "A bloodstone is not easily destroyed. It is nearly impossible to do so."

A flicker of something, quick, so very quick, passes through those silver eyes and then disappears.

Severus sits back in his seat, his dark hair framing his face as he studies Draco. The gentleness is gone.

"But you wouldn't know that would you?" He says it with a slight sneer, trying to provoke.

Draco just stares at him.

Severus keeps the eye contact, moment.

Broken by the arrival of their dinner.

Severus looks down at his plate, picking up his knife. The air around them is thick.

Cutting into his fish with precision, Severus does not look up from his dinner as he addresses Draco. "Did you read the book?"

Whirling, whirling, whirling.

Draco stares down at his own dinner and he is not hungry in the least.

He picks up the knife and cuts into the sirloin. "Yes," he answers.

Severus takes a bite of his fish, looking up and watching Draco closely, very closely. "And you discussed it with Miss Granger?"

There. A brief flinch, so very brief that even if someone were looking for the reaction they would have missed it.

Severus does not.

Draco swallows his bite. "Yes. We discussed the field that was created by the binding spell. She believes that is where the dark arts and the light magic were blurred creating this grey and unnamed field of magic."

"And what do you think."

Another bite. Slowly chewing. Swallowing.

"I believe she is correct."

Severus nods, eating the dinner in front of him. "Have you discussed what it is the two of you are going to do about it?"

Draco wipes his mouth with a napkin, looking every bit the aristocrat, even in the middle of the run down Three Broomsticks.

He places the napkin next to his half eaten dinner. "We did not get a chance. I believe we will meet with the Headmistress to discuss what it is we need to do."

Severus takes another bite. "Did you already recreate the spell then?"

Moments. Moments.

The old professor almost grins in triumph when he sees the slight crack in Draco's person, the slight tensing of a jaw line, just so very slight. If he could see Draco's magic, he would see the grey turning darker and darker, into black.

Tinged with blood red.

As it were he sees the jaw line and knows.

But is not quite sure what he knows.

"I don't think it will be necessary."

Moments.

"On the contrary Draco. It is essential."

Severus lips flutter, a brief smirk, brief, enough for Draco to see it.

Gray eyes harden to silver.

Steel.

Another cut into the fish. "For you see, to create something for others to understand you must first understand."

"We understand enough," a quick reply. Too quick.

Severus halts his movement, the bite of his fish half way to his mouth, holding the knife in the air, raising an eyebrow. "How? Because you once did this spell when you were a child, a child with no understanding of anything? Memories Draco? Do you pull your understanding of memories ten years gone?"

A slight tremble of the hand.

No answer.

Severus brings the knife up to his mouth, taking the fish between his teeth and chewing. Slowly. Slowly.

Waiting.

Sheer force of will, stubborn, control, pride.

Draco does not drop the older man's gaze.

Severus looks down at his plate and cuts another piece of fish. "Its not enough Draco. The spell is too complicated to be solved by memory alone, no matter if you believe it is enough. You and Miss Granger will have to recreate it, there is no other way, but you know this already, don't you?"

Another pause.

"But," he continues, "That is neither here nor there. Tell me, why do you want to destroy the bloodstone?"

A trick, changing the subject quickly, no room for thought.

Draco's answer immediate, controlled, a testament to the change.

"I have my reasons."

This time Severus does not contain the smirk. "Come now Draco, you know I could get the reasons if I wanted to, why don't we just do this the easy way and you tell them to me."

A comment like this would usually push Draco over, the control would break, fall apart.

This time the man across from Severus does not even blink.

Though a calculated smirk raises the side of Draco's mouth, just slightly. "I realize this, but I also realize that you respect me enough to leave information I want kept private, private."

Draco does lean forward then, dark robes rustling. He continues. "My reasons are singular, of no use to you. If I cannot destroy the bloodstone then there is no need for this line of conversation to continue."

A smirk, more than a smirk, a dry laugh. "Oh my boy, that is not the way to go about this at all." Dark hair shaking slightly as if the older man is trying to contain his mirth. One eyebrow, slightly raised. "Something happened between you and Miss Granger, something that has changed the dynamics quite significantly, and now you want to be rid of this compulsion do you not?" Severus leans forward this time, voice dropping to that melodic whisper of dangerous territory, "But Draco, perhaps you should have realized the consequences of binding through blood magic, through family blood magic, before making the decision, because now," a slight shrug to black clad shoulders, "It is far too late."

Dark black eyes wait, narrowed just slightly, waiting.

A pause.

No emotion in the pale face of the wizard, in the grey eyes, but something in the tone when Draco finally answers. "What are you speaking of Severus?"

"Do you not know?" The same voice, just slightly louder than inaudible, "Then perhaps I suggest you find out."

Severus stands, throwing coin on the table, his plate clear of his meal.

"Come to me when you have an answer, and I will tell you how to destroy the bloodstone," Severus says, then picks up his book and disappears in the crowd.

The control.

It fractures.

Pain.

Draco looks down to see blood pooling where he clutches the knife blade in his hand, cutting into the skin.

He lets the knife drop, watching the river of blood move down his palm, red against the white, slowly, gathering at the edge and falling.

The blood pools on the wood surface of the table.

Black in the dim light.


	16. Chapter 16

A shadowed figure walks down a road lit only by the end of a wand, falling snow illuminated in the magical glow, dark trees black against the light.

The smell of salt on the cold air.

The sound of the sea just barely registering with the wind.

Intertwining.

In the night.

Hermione walks with measured step, one foot in front of the other, steady, precise. Her black cloak wrapped around her, arms pulling towards her middle, resisting the cold.

Always so very cold.

Her head is bare and the snow, falling just a little bit faster now, melts on her shoulders, her nose, her eyelashes, but sticks to the wild curls around her face.

A halo.

Created by frozen moisture and the illumination of a wand.

An echo from weeks earlier.

She knows when she passes the wards and the anti-Apparition line because there is a warming about her feet, a slow and steady pull at her middle. Something at the back of her mind wonders why the wards allow her through, why there is no warning of her arrival.

Later she will puzzle over it.

But at that moment, it is enough that Severus said they would.

Two hours ago.

When she finally went to him.

After five days of Draco's absence, a meeting with the Ministry Board, and a quiet conversation with Minerva over tea.

Events.

Leading her to this place.

Hermione emerges from the woods and into a clearing, the house rising up from the ground in a mass of shadowed stone. A considerable estate, it has been refurbished in the last several years to stand as it once did, before the war, before Lucius even.

Restored to its glory.

A magnificent place with the warmth of its owner.

Ice, with no hope of thawing.

Hermione makes her way up the long drive, eyes focused on several lit windows, irritation, anger, gliding about her nerves with precision at their light.

She walks around a fountain, water frozen in animation, the boy's mouth spitting a stream of ice, the girl with the bucket, receiving it.

The details catch her eye, though her feet keep moving.

One step. Another. Stopping, at the threshold.

A moment.

The wind whipping curls across her face, the bite causing her to shiver even as she holds herself still.

Pulling her anger towards her, irritation towards her.

When she climbs the steps the large wooden doors open and he stands there, a swirling presence, grating, fingernails against her skin.

The light from inside highlights his hair, but is swallowed by the black trousers and shirt he wears, his shirt sleeves rolled up so she can clearly see the scar, glimmering a dull red, where the mark once was.

Face shadowed.

She stops four feet in front of him, meeting hooded eyes with her own, chin tilted slightly, gathering herself.

Hermione starts to speak before he can say anything, the first words that come to mind, a rush of nonsense.

"Do you know I had an interview this week with one lovely Rita Skeeter regarding my relationship with the youngest Minster of Magic ever in Wizarding history? I honestly thought that after fourth year and the small fact that Harry is married and has three children, we would be past that but I guess I'll have to keep wishing."

The man in front of her does not move.

She thought she would get a smirk, get something.

Face blank, staring at her.

She continues, a frazzle of words, irritation coming through, trying for something.

Anything.

"I also corrected over two hundred student parchments. I took over twenty points away from Slytherin for defiling a student's entire bag of books and assignments, took ten from Hufflepuff for generally being stupid, gave twenty to Ravenclaw for answering questions correctly and five to Gryffindor for standing up to the Slytherins who defiled the books."

She takes one step towards him.

"I visited the new baby twice, both times having to sit through tea with Ginny and Molly, both of whom I love dearly but who do nothing but talk about my lack of matrimonial bliss. In addition, they are going to name the baby Fred, which is appropriate of course but I very much wish they would come up with their own names rather than naming their kids after dead people. Perhaps something normal, like Brian or Michael, or something exotic like Xavier. Xavier Potter has a nice ring."

Another step. A small voice in the back of her mind telling to be quiet, to stop blabbing, but anger, uncertainty, irritation, nerves, pushing her on.

"I also met with the Ministry Board who wished to know how much progress we have made. When I told them that we've barely made any progress at all, I had to lie and say that we were working on it every day, that progress was just taking longer than expected and I would give them a report on our progress by Monday, which is two days from now. Minerva and I had tea and a nice chat so I could explain why you were no longer at Hogwarts, and why I didn't know where you were or when you would be back. Oh, and then there was the mention of a certain spell that is no longer supposed to be used on Hogwarts' property, verbal or otherwise. Quite a sight, seeing me trying to explain that one."

Another step.

"I had to listen to her tell me that this curriculum is important, what we are supposedly doing, and that she strongly encourages me - she used that word, _strongly _- she strongly encourages me to focus on this. Then she told me that she has the greatest confidence in us - me, in fact - and that I have never let her down on an assignment and I wouldn't on this either. All the while I sat there sipping her tea, not knowing where you were, not knowing what we are doing, not knowing a bloody thing and having to make it all up because hell, Draco Malfoy has decided to disappear from the world and I don't bloody know where he is."

Her eyes are blazing now, arms coming from around her middle to be held rigid at her side. Anger taking precedence over everything else she feels standing before him.

"To top it all off I have to find you, which means going off on a wild goose chase because for some reason the Malfoy Manor is unplottable, because the same Mr. Malfoy that I cannot locate has paid a small fortune to make it so no one can find him if he doesn't want to be found. So I spent an entire day trying to find Severus, figuring that he is probably the one person that would know how to find you, but instead of being in his nice cozy house in the middle of Muggle London, I finally find him on some coast on the very northern tip of the continent, and when I do find him he laughs at me, says something rather vague about a family binding spell, and a bloodstone, and how I am royally Queen Elizabeth screwed and then, only then Draco, does he tell me where you are."

She is panting now, her hand with the wand shaking at him.

"Now it is snowing and it is freezing, I haven't eaten since this morning, my head aches and I can no longer feel my feet nor my fingers and all I want is a nice cup of tea, a fire, a book in my quarters, with my things around me, and I decidedly do not want to be standing here, in the middle of bloody nowhere, in front of your bloody door, waiting for you to bloody say something."

Silence.

Except for the soft sound of snow falling.

And then.

"I suppose you would like to come in," he drawls, the tall form standing back slightly, no longer blocking the entrance.

Hermione growls, actually growls, and then raises her chin even further in the air and with the posture of the Queen of England, walks past Draco Malfoy and into his home.

For the first time.

Ever.

Draco closes the door behind her.

Her anger is still moving around her in whirls of magic and she turns on her heel, barely even giving her surroundings a glance in order to watch the man before her.

_He looks tired._

The thought banks the anger, gentles it, though her chin remains firmly in the air and her eyes still flash.

He walks past her, towards the open door at the end of the massive entryway, not saying a word, only to stop and turn, looking at her with a slight smirk on his face when she does not immediately follow.

She huffs at him and follows, mumbling decidedly unpleasant things under her breath until she steps into the Malfoy library and all thoughts flee.

"Oh wow," she says, slightly breathless, looking up at the walls of books before her. All thoughts of her frozen appendages, her throbbing headache and her empty stomach is forgotten in the very real appreciation of what she sees.

She takes another step into the library, tilting her head back to view the full expanse of the room, walking slowly towards one wall, fingers reaching out and gently, so gently, touching one of the leather-bound spines.

It warms under her touch.

Draco watches from across the room, watches her fingers trace the leather spines of the books, the line of her throat catching the light from the fire as she tilts her head backwards, cheeks bright, eyes now soft, very very soft, apparent even from where he stands.

Control. So very precious.

Splintering as he looks on her.

"I thought you wanted tea, not to stand there agape like a complete Muggle."

The words harsh, meant to cut.

Hermione doesn't even register them, nodding absently as she continues to look at the books in front of her. "Please, tea would be wonderful," she says.

Draco looks down at the delicate porcelain tea set already in place, one of his mother's, meaningful, important to him.

All he can imagine is picking up the perfect white tea pot and smashing it against the wall, and how the pieces would fly every which way, the sound would crash through the room, hot tea splattering, scalding.

He snaps his fingers, a house elf popping into presence immediately.

"New tea, and sandwiches."

A cold voice.

The house elf bobs his head and disappears, almost immediately reappearing with what Draco requested. He sets it down in front of his master waiting, somewhat nervously, not having seen his master in such a mood in a long time.

Draco waves a hand and the house elf disappears.

Hermione vaguely feels the darkness rolling off the man across the room in great waves, but only vaguely; not even the caustic way Draco speaks to the house elf is enough for her to turn from her perusal of the books in front of her.

Not until that caustic voice is directed towards her.

"Why are you here?"

Words hanging in the air.

They bring Hermione straight back to the present.

She turns slowly from the books, reluctant to get back to the reasons, to the anger she should have but which has completely left her in the presence of such knowledge surrounding them.

Such wonderful knowledge.

She walks with a soft step towards where Draco is seated, sliding her cloak off her shoulders and placing it on the back of the chair before sitting down. She notices that Draco has not poured for either of them and without thought she does.

It is strangely reminiscent, not of the time a week ago, but another time, sitting on the floor in front of a fire in the Burrow, tea in front of them, house silent around them. Draco had been in a mood then also, having just returned from a Death Eater meeting, his whole persona prickly, waspish, not wanting to discuss anything, staring silently in the fire.

Eyes cold and distant.

Haunted.

She had poured his tea and handed it over to him. When he had taken it, he had muttered a thank you, tagging on her name, her given name, Hermione, at the end.

It was the first time he had said her name.

So nonchalant.

So without thought.

A connector before there ever really was one.

Hermione hands his tea over. He takes it.

No words are spoken.

Hermione sips at the tea and then holds the cup between her palms, warming them, even as her toes tingle at the warmth from the fire, even as she ignores the cold gathering in her chest.

From his lack of words.

And the memory which still exists.

She finally answers him. "I am here because we have a job to do and I cannot do it on my own."

Silence.

Flames in the fireplace.

She looks over at the man sitting next to her.

On her walk to the manor, through the cold, her anger had kept every and all compulsion at bay, the pressure always at the base of her spine, the flare of cold in her chest, the feel of his magic surrounding her.

All in check because of her anger.

But now her anger is gone and she expects, almost wants, the assault of his magic.

But she feels nothing.

At all.

A void.

She looks away, hands grasping the cup, tighter, tighter.

He feels her eyes on his face, feels them scanning him, feels a distant plucking of his compulsion and inwardly smirks.

He has spent the last five days creating wards around himself. The spell, something Severus had taught him, is very much like the wards one puts on a room to protect it, but instead of creating it around a room, he has created it around himself, multiple layers, layers upon layers of magic that does not allow any f his magic, not even blood magic, to escape the tight control he has created.

A trick. From before, when having to face Voldemort.

A painstaking, painful way of isolating one's magic.

From anything.

And anyone.

When Draco does not say anything Hermione continues. "I've re-read the book, going over the details and there are a few questions I have that I hoped you could help me with."

Still no answer.

Frustration, now sparkling along her nerves.

She represses it and continues. "For instance, do you know where this book came from?"

Draco looks over at her then because it is a question he had also asked. A question he put before Severus three days earlier.

"It was given to Severus by my father." Words spoken in a neutral manner.

Costing him a great deal.

Though Hermione doesn't see it.

Her mind is already moving the information through her many filters, picking it apart, remembering something that Severus said earlier.

"A family binding spell," she mutters, to herself more to Draco, unknowingly biting her lip as she thinks on what that means.

She looks up, somewhat startled to see a pair of piercing grey eyes, hard silver, staring at her.

Cold, brilliant, flaring in her chest.

She looks away from those eyes, back to the fire. "The book is rather vague beyond the instructions on how to complete the spell, but Severus said something about a family binding spell? Is it possible this could be a family spell, your family?"

Draco honestly doesn't know. In addition to creating his personal, ward he also has spent the last several days trying to find more about the bloodstone and not having any luck.

He does not say this though, also looking into the flames and no longer at her.

Hermione's frustration grows and she actually glares at the side of his face, putting her tea down on the table between them. "Oh come on, what is silence going to accomplish?"

"No," he says, almost immediately.

Hermione narrows her eyes. "No, what?"

He looks away from the flames and back at the woman sitting across from him, meeting her gaze. On some level he notices the shadows under her eyes and a part of him wonders idly if he has ever seen her without shadows.

Thoughts, barely whispering in his mind and easily ignored.

"No, I do not know if it is a family specific spell. I have gone through several of the family tomes cataloguing the various spells created but I have not come across anything." He raises an eyebrow, "However, there are over a hundred different catalogs and thousands of spells, so it's possible I just haven't come across it yet."

Hermione's eyes widen. "Thousands of spells?"

Draco smirks, and it is an old smirk, something akin to normalcy.

It pulls at Hermione and she feels her chest tighten.

"Yes, Malfoys have been around for a very long time, thus the term pure-blood."

Hermione does not resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Honestly." A pause, and then somewhat timidly, "Can I see those catalogs?"

This time the smirk is definitely there, along with a raised eyebrow and the slight, ever so slight warming of ice grey eyes. "All of them?"

An exasperated sigh.

"No. Just the ones you haven't gone through," her tone clearly belying the fact he is being an idiot and did he really need to ask that question.

A moment.

Grey eyes and brown, meeting across a table laid out with tea things, fire between them.

A moment.

Flame flickering, magic flaring, underneath a ward, underneath a firm control.

Just there. Barely.

And then gone.

Draco stands up and walks to a massive desk, a pile of rolled parchments on one corner. He picks through them, pulling from the pile four thick rolls, gathering them under his arm and going back to where the witch is sitting.

He hands them over.

She looks up in question.

"This where I left off," he says as way of an explanation.

Hermione takes them, the parchments heavy and weighing her down, uncomfortable in her chair. She slides to the floor, on the carpet in front of the chairs, arranging herself in a cross-legged position, and unrolls the first parchment.

Draco watches her for a moment, lost in a memory.

Absently he summons parchment and quill and deposits them in front of her with a flick of his wrist.

She looks up in surprise, and then pleasure, giving him the briefest of smiles before bending back down to what is in front of her.

Memories.

He wrenches himself from them and pulls out his own parchments to work on.

For a moment, the briefest of moments, he recognizes his desire to go sit next to her, on the floor, in front of the fire.

Memory.

He sits himself at the desk.

Hours.

The ticking of a clock.

The reappearance of house elves with hot tea and more sandwiches.

Flames in the fireplace.

The distant sound of wind through the trees outside the home.

A quill, scratching against parchment, pausing, scratching some more.

The steady drum of fingers tapping a desk top.

Until finally Hermione looks up with blurry eyes, spells revolving around and around in her brain.

"Did you find anything?" she asks, the first words spoken in a long time.

Draco looks up from the parchment he is reading, tiredness not as obvious in the sharp lines of his face, but still there, on the edge.

"No, nothing at all."

Hermione puts a hand on the small of her back and stretches backwards, hair, which at one point was fastened behind her head, now a mass of curls falling down her backside.

Draco looks away.

His wards vibrating at the sight.

"Well, perhaps it isn't a Malfoy spell," she says, once more in a normal position, leaning against the chair, legs clad in Muggle jeans in front of her. She stares absently into the fire, finger tapping against her lips, "Perhaps we don't even need to know the origin of the spell." She shakes her head then, muttering, "No, we need to know the origin."

She looks over at Draco, expecting him to make some remark about her just wanting more work, but he is not looking at her. In fact, he doesn't even appear to be in the room with her, his eyes distant, looking out the black window, the reflection of the room clear.

Hermione feels that tug, somewhere around her chest, in her belly, a warming, as she notices the less than perfect hair, evidence that he has run a hand through it more than once in the last little while.

White glinting in the fire light.

She looks down at her hands, the fingers curling in on themselves. Eyes closing for a moment.

Just a moment.

When she opens them she is immediately caught by Draco's gaze.

Again.

The tug becoming something sharp, insistent.

He looks away and stands, hand running through his hair again.

"I'm going to bed. Brinky will show you your room," he says.

But Hermione doesn't hear him, doesn't even realize the words are said, her eyes on the hand which had run through his hair.

An elegant white hand.

Without a familiar red stone.

"Where's your ring?" the question asked, before she can even think to stop it.

The air, so still, so normal, so devoid of anything horrible, freezes, changes. Magic, just contained, throbbing.

Throbbing.

Draco does not move from behind the desk, eyes piercing her, echoes, memories.

Something within Hermione is cowering, cowering, backtracking, falling away, moving away, even as another part relishes in the sudden presence of Draco's magic, in the sudden filling of the void she has felt since she walked into the manor.

"The ring," he says, voice calm, quiet, deadly, "is of no importance to me any more."

Words.

Shattering.

Draco walking from the library, steps silent, Hermione watching him, the fluid grace, watching him, opening the door, leaving, closing it behind him.

With a click.

That echoes.

In the re-established void.


	17. Chapter 17

_"Between one being and another, there is a gulf, a discontinuity… It is a deep gulf, and I do not see how it can be done away with. None the less, we can experience its dizziness together. It can hypnotise it. This gulf is death in one sense, and death is vertiginous, death is hypnotising." G. Bataille_

Hermione does not sleep.

Draco does not sleep.

Though neither realizes it of the other.

Hermione stands at the window in the room she's been provided, palm against the coldness of the glass, head against the stone next to it.

Staring out at the slowly pinkening sky, casting colours over the newly fallen snow.

Tired.

Her mind an array of jumbled thoughts and emotions.

She wonders if it is too early for breakfast, then wonders how that works in this place, so different than anywhere she's ever been.

A reminder.

Differences.

Glass.

Cold, against her fingers.

Chilling.

She'd almost left the night before. When the door had clicked and she had regained her senses, she'd had every intention of leaving, of figuring out someway to complete this curriculum without him.

The Malfoy darling.

But then Brinky had appeared, looking nervous, shuffling from foot to foot, telling her that Master Malfoy had readied a room for her and to please to come with him.

And she had.

Because of the way the house elf looked frightened, as if there would be consequences if she said no, because Draco had a room made up for her, because of her inability to label, to understand, to comprehend, Draco's words.

And finally, because she knew, understood, that she had to have the wizard's participation in order to complete the project.

So she had followed the house elf up to the room.

Tiredness dragging her step.

Her magic sluggish even as she tried the most basic spells to prepare for sleep and build up the fire in the fireplace, only to find, once lying in the massive bed, that she couldn't sleep, the image of Draco's face as it was then, as it was now, revolving.

Around and around.

Night turning to dawn.

Clouds obscuring the sun.

A white landscape awesome in its purity, in its untouched beauty spread out in front of her.

Hermione wishes for sleep.

Just one night of sleep, uninterrupted by nightmares, by flares of blazing white heat in her chest. One night.

She takes her hand away from the cold glass, flexing her rigid fingers in order to regain feeling in them, then turns from the window staring at the room around her, unsure of what to do now.

A moment.

Then a decision.

With a smile Hermione lets herself out of the room and quietly traces her path from last night, down the stairs and to the doors of the library.

Draco finds her there several moments later, his approach silent, standing just inside the door, watching. Watching, as she twirls her quill and bites her lip, pouring over the parchments, tea things next to her.

He's spent a sleepless night with such an image in his head.

She finally feels his presence and looks up from the parchment, eyes immediately taking in his features, his perfect hair, the easy way he leans against the door.

Relaxed.

Though she feels the tension running through him.

Somehow.

"Good morning," she tries, breaking her gaze away from him, looking down at the parchment.

"Did you get breakfast?" He asks, moving into the room, easily and gracefully, belying his sleepless night.

She doesn't look up. "Yes, the tea is still warm, and I think there are some crumpets left."

Instinctively and without thought, something simple in Hermione's magic reaches out, reaches out and finds nothing.

Absent. Still. Nothing.

Draco falls to the rug next to her, startling her. She glances at him even as she strives to control the sudden thrum of blood through her veins. Looking away. Back at the parchment. Back at the quill between her fingers.

He ignores her to pour his tea, looking at the leftover breakfast food and deciding against it, stomach tight, a heavy ball, weighing down.

He smells like spice and wealth, and underneath that the clean of a new fallen snow.

She smells of lavender and autumn.

"I read the book again last night," Draco says.

Hermione looks over in surprise, raising an eyebrow.

"I found it on the library floor; it must have fallen from your cloak pocket last night," Draco explains.

She nods, just barely, curls moving in the morning light.

He can almost feel them under his fingers.

Ignoring it. Continuing.

"I was thinking last night about the spell being Malfoy centric, perhaps being created by one of my Malfoy ancestors so I cast several different charms," he puts a hand up to stall her question of what charms, and continues, "and though I didn't discover the original writers of the spell, I did find something rather interesting about our little book."

He sips his tea.

Hermione watches him closely, patiently.

But just barely.

He puts the tea down, and turns to look Hermione full in the face, three feet between them, "I believe that what we cast was not the original spell. One of the charms I used, a simple charm really - something my father developed in order to send cryptic messages, alerted me to several changes in the actual spell, places were the original spell was either entirely terminated, or was manipulated in some fashion."

Hermione works the knowledge around in her mind. "Is there some way we can trace the terminated pieces, or see what the changes are?"

Draco slowly shakes his head, lost in his own thoughts now, the logic of the problem catching his interest. "I don't think so. I tried several different things, a couple of which are not taught at Hogwarts if you understand, but the changes were so exact that not even a trace of the original magic was present."

Hermione tilts her head, putting the quill down to pick up her tea. "So, we still need to figure out who the original author was?"

Draco, still lost in his thoughts nods absently, "Yes. But, the information is still very interesting."

He locks gazes with her and the intensity in his eyes shocks Hermione enough that the tea in her cup trembles from the shiver lacing up and down her person.

She sets the tea cup carefully down.

"Why so?" she asks.

"Do you not remember what Severus said, when he first came to us with the spell?" The bored tone was there, but underneath it, tension.

Hermione thought back on the scene, in the library at the Burrow, in front of the fireplace, like so many other scenes, and Severus, explaining, the book held out for Draco to take it, explaining about the magical field created out of the binding spell, created to allow Harry a place where he could fight Voldemort one on one, without outside influence, without Voldemort being able to call on anything for an advantage.

Equal opponents.

Through a magical field.

And then Hermione's mind catches it, just a flicker, and her eyes grow slightly, looking over at Draco in alarm.

"The field," she breathed.

Draco nods. "The field was supposed to dismantle, fall away, but it didn't."

"Why?"

Draco shakes his head, pulling a hand through the perfect hair, now not so perfect, now more human, now more…something else.

Hermione's fingers itch. The base of her spine throbs.

Though the magical intensity she usually feels from him is still missing.

Still nothing.

"I don't know. I couldn't find an explanation."

Hermione tries to remember what she knows about binding spells, her mind going over the countless amount of information she has read on the subject.

She chews on her lips, slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant.

Draco watches her, eyes focused on her lip, on the perfect white teeth.

His magic pushing against the wards.

She slowly shakes her head, "There is no reason why the binding spell should cause anything but…" She trails off, not sure if she should go on, the words on her tongue suddenly meaning many things, many things unsaid, unsure.

"The compulsion," Draco finishes for her, quietly.

She jerks her head to look at him, eyes searching his face, for anything, anything at all, but it is perfectly blank, not even his eyes giving away emotion.

And that place.

Void.

She looks away. "Except the compulsion," she agrees.

She shakes her head again, trying to clear it, layer it, she feels stifled, hot, unsure. "Could it be that simple? That the field exists because the binding still exists?"

Draco is still by her side.

Stillness.

Moments.

"No, I don't think so," he says.

She agrees after a moment. "The field existed because we created it, but when complete it was dismantled, or it disappeared; I saw it."

Another moment.

"That doesn't necessarily mean it actually disappeared," the quiet reply.

Hermione waves a hand, suddenly irritated, frustrated. She rises to her feet and goes over to the large windows, staring out at the white landscape.

Hand against the glass.

Cold.

Anchoring.

"Of course it doesn't, because I can –" she pauses, not wanting to stumble on her words, "I can still see the elemental magic, I can see the shadow, the grey field. I can see it. But I didn't. Not at first, not directly afterwards, not until…"

Something sharp then. Sharp and more than painful, something searing, something horribly, horribly searing. Pain and guilt and horror, her sight washing in blackness, darkness.

"Oh Merlin," she whispers, remembering, remembering.

Fading, fading with the knowledge, weak.

He is at her side instantly, moving quickly, next to her, hand on her arm, the contact brilliant, first contact a brilliant flare of nerves, heat, but all of it, twirling madly, madly, madly.

"What?" A retort, sharp, scattering thoughts, shattering.

She looks at him then, so close, hand on her arm, so close she can smell him, she can feel his warmth, can feel him, and it's glorious. Above all of it, it's glorious, his eyes worried, cautious, but there, finally there, and the magic, yes, just a small amount, but there too.

But underneath that, flying underneath, trapped to the ground, knowledge.

Brutal knowledge.

Hateful, horrible knowledge.

And she says it because she can't help but say it.

"Not until Ron's funeral."

The words.

A scream of anguish at the base of her spine.

Draco takes one step back, another, rigid, aristocrat, pulling on the Malfoy cloak, pulling away from her, his hand dropping from her arm, and the coldness of it, the lack of his presence, a vacuum, pulling, pulling, away from her.

Until there is nothing.

"I see," he says.

Biting her lip, a point of focus, pain, physical pain, a focus.

Another step away from her, and then turning, to return, not to the rug in front of the fireplace, no, to the desk. Placing himself at the desk, dark heavy wood between them.

"Explain."

_Pain. Focus._

She turns away and once again stares outside. Her hand coming up, again, to make contact with the glass, tracing the lines there with a finger, tracing, a point of focus.

"It was after the funeral," she began softly, so softly, "after the funeral is when I first saw the shadows."

Two days. Between Ron's death and Ron's funeral. Two days.

Without shadows.

Two days that were a mass of confusion, loss, joy, sorrow, and, a decision, a decision made the morning of the funeral, before the sun rose, sitting on a bench in the Weasley's garden.

Shadows.

"Are you sure?" Brutal. The tone tearing, destroying.

She doesn't look at him. "Yes," she says quietly, through a squeezed throat, amazed she could get the syllable out at all.

"At Ron's funeral," she repeats.

A moment.

Flickering of flame.

Cold against her hand.

And then.

"It was out of our control." The spoken words chilling, freezing the air.

Hermione immediately knows what he is speaking of.

She does not turn away from the window.

"It was coming," the tone, continuing. She listens even though her mind is screaming for him to shut up.

Memories.

_Please shut up._

He doesn't.

"Part of a binding spell, any binding spell, is the copulation of the relationship between those bound. It doesn't matter if it's an Unbreakable Vow, doesn't matter what kind of binding spell, those who are bound are connected."

The voice.

Lecturing.

Devoid of emotion.

_I can't do this._

Her voice, whinging, whimpering.

"Even now, Severus and I are connected through his vow to my mother. Even now you and I are connected through the spell we cast. Acts Hermione," he says from behind the desk, "acts because we were bound, because when the abyss surrounded us, when the darkness was all around us, we took a moment to live, to glorify in life."

Hermione has dropped her finger, dropped her hand to her side and she trembles, can't control it, can't turn away, can't will herself to leave, to walk out of the room, away from him, away from his voice.

Movement. Of air. Of time.

And suddenly he is there; his body is next to hers again, a rustle of fabric, the scent of him, oh gods the scent, and suddenly, as if a dam opened, his magic, whirling around, around, pressing, so very insistent, so very real, tangible.

A sound, strangled, coming from her throat and his breath is there, on the back of her neck, body not touching, no, not touching, but there, a presence at her back.

"A moment Hermione," he whispers next to her skin, the voice, silkiness moving over the hairs there, shivering, "A moment that we took to remember that we were alive, that we breathed, and bled, that we were real, still, a moment."

His voice, liquid, hot, and she remembers, standing there, she remembers something she has long wished to forget.

How he had came to her even as she had shut the door to his room, how his lips had found hers in the dark and she had thrilled at the brutal nature of it, the insistence of it. Nice, no not nice, never nice, demanding, a reassurance of reality, a confirmation. And she'd welcomed it, the taste of him in her mouth, filling her senses, her hands digging into his arms even as his hands roamed over her sides, pulling up the thin fabric of her sleep t-shirt.

"Do you remember," the voice says now, pulling her from the memory, combining with the memory.

She leans forward against the glass, the cold glass, resting her head there.

Still not touching, not physically, but his voice, caressing, the memories caressing, his magic wrapping itself around her.

"Do you remember how it felt, how it felt when I ran my hands over your body, when I took you into my mouth, sweet, sweet Hermione?"

And she can, the memory replaying even as her body throbs with the memory, she remembers everything, the feel of his palms against her breast, his mouth warm against the nipple, plucking with his teeth, blowing cool air, then nipping at her collar bone, finding that spot along her jaw line, to kiss with lips, with his tongue, with the bite of a marking. Marking her as his. His.

She moans at the remembered feeling, hands clenching.

Continuing in that voice, a mere hair's breath from contact, "And when I finally thrust into you, and you cried out my name, so warm, so tight, throbbing around me, as I moved inside you, do you remember?" His tone losing its smoothness, turning ragged, hands coming up against the window, boxing her in, but not touching, so close but not touching.

But the magic.

The magic touches, harsh against her suddenly sensitive skin, rubbing, coaxing, intertwining, his and hers, twining, twining and touching, leaping away, touching again.

And the heat, deep in her womb, growing.

His lips, close to her ear, a barely controlled voice, twirling, winding, tighter and tighter, "I can see you now, even now, arching up underneath me, your hair spread out about your head, breasts thrust up, my hands playing with your nipples, so incredibly lovely, withering underneath me."

A breath, along her jaw line, voice dropping, sliding, "So lovely, so incredibly lovely in life, in the example of life," his lips against her ear now, feather touches, jolts, "and when you came my lovely Hermione, when you screamed my name, and my own sex responded and I exploded inside of you, in that wet heat, I was alive, and in that one moment, fucking you was the most glorious example of life I had ever witnessed. Life, Professor," he whispers, "reaffirming the need for existence."

She can't stand; the window keeps her up, his body so close behind her keeps her from collapsing and the heat, it's too much, too much, his lips at her ear, the voice, the memory, too much, too much.

And then gone.

Like murder. The sudden and complete lack of existence.

Magic gone. Body gone.

Everything.

Gone.

And the click of a door closing.

And the muffled sob of the witch at the window.

Because she remembers, with an image seared into her mind, the look on his face, the beads of sweat on his brow, his hands grasping her own, as he called out her name, the look of peace on his face when he dropped his head, magic swirling about him, white hair falling over his face, and the colour of his eyes, liquid, quicksilver, apparent even in the moon, as he looked down at her, fingers intertwined with her own.

Now.

Falling down the window, falling, curling herself inwards, sobs racking her body because she remembers it all, remembers the kiss he had placed on her lips, gentle where before it was harsh, no longer claiming, but thanking, remembering her arms coming around him, pulling him down, remembering his arms, strongly pulling her against his body, cradling her head in his arm.

Remembering.

Lying awake together, watching the night fade to the dark grey clouds of the morning, the finale of everything before them, ready in breathless anticipation, the end, rolling towards them and only when they could no longer lay there, only at the very last moment did she untangle herself from his arms, gathering her clothes, putting them back on.

The kiss, at the end, brutal, a mark.

Then gentle.

A whisper along lips.

Knowledge. Acknowledgement.

Not hope. No.

But peace.

For a moment.


	18. Chapter 18

_The kiss, at the end, brutal, a mark._

_Then gentle._

_A whisper along lips._

_Knowledge. Acknowledgement._

_Not hope. No. _

_But peace._

_For a moment._

Frigid.

The feel of cold air biting at his cheeks.

Calming. Calming.

Calming his over-heated blood. The betrayal of his body.

Snow underfoot.

Wind across his person, moving the hair on his head, billowing a black cloak swung around his shoulders, hands fisted.

Control, control.

Mental barriers, wards, fragmented, reapplying them, focusing, focusing. Battling though, straining, not wanting to exist, wanting to remember, wanting to remember with something akin to starvation, a thirst, desperate, heated, grasping at his throat, tearing, tearing, tearing.

_Gods._

A silent prayer to something he doesn't believe in.

Needing something. Control, control.

The feel of her, the smell of her.

Then.

Now, the way her body vibrated in front of him.

_Sickness._

To bring that memory up, a feeling of nausea, combing, twisting.

A fist.

Slamming into a tree trunk.

Pain.

A focus.

He hadn't meant to; running a hand through his hair, shaking, ignoring the shaking, running a hand through the hair again.

He hadn't meant to.

But it was there, had always been there, that last exchange, after the funeral, the words, words that had sliced him, cut him open, bleeding, guts dropping onto the snow around the cemetery.

Her words.

_This, this isn't right, what we did, not right, what I did, not right._

Her words.

Bleeding him.

And his fury.

And hate.

Not of her. No never ever her, he would never hate her, not after everything, not after what he'd seen, done, been forced to do, not hate.

No.

Hate, directed at a dead body. Hate over something he didn't understand. Honour?

Perhaps.

Guilt? More than likely.

And above, underneath, all of it, the memory of a little boy in a big manor.

Not betrayal, no not betrayal, something more, a knife, twisting, twisting, twisting, not in his back, but in his chest, unseen until the very end.

Walking away from her then, ten years prior, leaving her before he can hear any more of her poisonous words, determined, gathering himself, falling, falling, but straight backed, razor sharp, walking away, walking away.

Broken.

Bloody fucking Weasley, never good enough, never enough for her, stupid, callous, a sidekick.

Another fist.

Another tree.

Focus. Focus.

Pain.

The thoughts, coming unbidden, the fury, hot, true, unresolved, lurking, didn't even know it had been lurking, bringing that Weasel up. He'd seen red, seen the gathering darkness, around his eyes, around his mind, gathering, gathering.

Pressure.

That night, never anything but reverence, the memory, pure, but now, darkness, stabbed by his actions, a memory filled with something he had never forgotten about, a peace, a brilliant beautiful wonderful peace, just a moment.

A moment.

Now defiled.

"Merlin," barely whispered, a stumble through the snow, black cloak trimmed with the white moisture, moving through trees, between large trunks, moving farther and farther away.

Running.

Because he can't be there, because he can't, because he can't.

The sound of the sea in front of him, the flicker of sun peaking through a cloud, swallowed, somewhere in the back of his mind the thought.

_Wasn't the sky clear earlier?_

But clouded now, slowly covering the light, and he comes out of the trees, comes out to the cliff, jutting out over the sea, grey in its coldness, in its frigid chill.

And there he stops.

Wind billowing about his person.

Water against cliffs, pounding.

And there he stops.

Silent.

Until he can just hear her step behind him.

There, because she is who she is and she knows who he is, and in the end, he has never intimidated her and they have come so far from that moment years ago when he had called her a Mudblood.

He feels her magic, whirling about him, about her, reaching out, and because he did not think she would follow, because he thought she would be long gone, his own magic reaching out unbidden, the connection, the compulsion, vibrating between them.

She stops by his side, her own black cloak wrapped around her, head bare, hair whipping around her face and shoulders from the wind of the sea.

Then she speaks.

"You told me that you owe me a life debt, that I saved your life."

Words. Words. Circling. Quiet.

He can feel her eyes on his face, the slight shift in her magic, in the connection between them.

Pausing.

A whisper of breath.

Quiet but harsh, belaying the meaning, underlining the words, continuing, magic touching him.

Then.

"The reason was not because of guilt, why I made the decision I made. I have never felt guilt over that night. I have never felt anything but wonder at those hours together."

A pause. Gathering. Gathering.

"That decision was made because in the end Draco, in the end, I chose you."

Moments.

Moments.

Clarity. Not perfect. Not even adequate.

But something.

She turns away from him.

"I will be in the library going over the catalogs."

A pause. A touch, not physical, but magical, of their compulsion.

Gentle.

And then, lilting over her shoulder as she walks away, "Don't stay out here too long."

The crash of the sea, against cliffs made of stone below.

Water the exact colour of Draco's eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

He stands on the cliff overlooking the sea.

Letting the wind, the salt, scourge his thoughts.

Calmness, descending like a shroud.

Memories.

"You don't scare me Draco Malfoy," her words, remembered, echoing in his head. "I know what you are, a scared little boy with nobody to tell him what to do any more. Well I've got news for you Malfoy, maybe it's time for you to grow up, maybe it's time you start making your own decisions. Or is that too hard for you? No one to blame but yourself?"

A fisted hand attacking the wall over her head.

Leaning down so his nose almost touched hers, staring, glaring into her eyes, noticing even as fury moved through him that she didn't flinch at his proximity, that she really was not frightened of him.

His own words, echoing, echoing, "You think I am allowed to make my own decisions? You think I have that luxury? I serve a master Granger. I do what I do because I have to, not because I want to, not because I enjoy going and getting hit by curses on a daily fucking basis. You think I like the feel of the _Cruciatus Curse_? You think I like the feel of blood on my body, mine and others, you think I like it?"

The fist hit the wall behind her, pressing her against that same wall with his body. "I am a fucking pawn Granger, and you have no idea sitting here, with your bloody books and bloody parchments. You have no fucking idea how great it would be to make my own decisions."

She'd lifted her chin then, lifted her chin, mere inches away from his. "You are in control of a lot more than you think," she said quietly, "perhaps for starters you should try being less of a git."

Remembering the way he'd suddenly become very aware of their position then, of the way her body felt against his, of the way her eyes sparked back at him, not cowering, not fearful, but challenged, spitting fire.

And how he'd leapt back as if burned, leapt back and glowered at the witch in front of him, clear amusement on her face then, but something else that he hadn't looked to closely into.

"A naive little girl," he'd spat at her.

And she'd raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Better than being an arrogant prat."

Memories.

Draco runs a hand through his hair one more time and then turns from the sea, making his way slowly back to the manor.

Unsure of her words, of what they meant, and not wanting to.

Something inside him not wanting to.

Implication.

Boundless.

He moves out of the trees and immediately recognizes a darker presence, something floating about the manor. The thoughtful look on his face slides away into blankness.

Gathering himself.

He knows of only one person able to pass his wards without alerting him, and only one person with such presence. He is not entirely glad to know that his former Professor is waiting for him.

The thought of Severus waiting with Hermione is even less of a welcome thought.

It takes him only a matter of moments to come to the front doors, opening them and silently moving into the house, noticing the dark cloak on the settee in the foyer and the general pull of his magic, from both the witch and the wizard sitting in the library.

Out of habit born from years earlier, Draco stands just outside the library door looking in, not at all surprised to find Severus sitting with tea in front of the fire, Hermione sitting in the other talking animatedly.

Almost like nothing had happened.

She is explaining the little they had found out, a quill moving between her fingers, a slight smudge of ink high on her cheek.

A mark.

Like a kiss.

A twinge, at his conscious, at something else, tightening his gut.

"The result was different?" The tone, dry and slightly thoughtful coming from the tall dark man across from her.

"Yes."

Answer to the point, with no more added information. She has learned how to talk with the Potions Master.

For some reason this makes the man standing at the door smile.

If just slightly, if barely noticeable.

"Hmm." Severus says quietly, staring at the fire, fingers steepled in front of him.

The sound of silence except the whisper of a feather quill moving in the air.

Suddenly Draco moves from the door, announcing his presence.

Dark eyes, black and brown, look up to see him, one softening, the other not.

Draco ignores both of them and goes over to the desk, settling himself in the chair there. Easy, composed, belying the tension ricocheting through his body.

A familiar white heat at that point on his chest and the sudden overwhelming desire for one stone, hidden, in a vault at Gringotts.

Draco feels Hermione's eyes on him, her magic, the compulsion, vibrating between them but he refuses to acknowledge it. His own magic back within its tightly held wards.

For her, more than for him.

Though he would never admit to it.

"I was telling Severus about the paradox of the field," Hermione finally supplies, her tone bland, but underneath it, just barely, a touch of worry.

For some reason the worry causes laughter laced with just a bit of hysteria, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He clenches his jaw to keep it from escaping.

_Worry, after all that he had done moments before?_

A control.

Neither Hermione nor Severus notices his dilemma.

He allows his jaw to relax, breathe, focus, in and out.

He turns his gaze on Severus, meeting the man's eyes for a moment, seeing nothing there, nothing along his face, nothing to indicate he knows something is going on, or something has happened.

Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

At all.

"Yes," Draco responds. "Last night I went over the book, as well as the notes from before. I came across information about the magic created with the binding; it should have gone away after it was no longer needed."

Severus turns his eyes away from his godson and looks back to the fire, nodding slowly. "But it hasn't," he finally says, stating the obvious though the intended meaning was more than the stated words.

Draco feels the level of panic in Hermione's magic then, the sudden intensity, the actual shakiness in it.

Some part of him wants to reach out to her, physically, mentally, to assure her.

He stays perfectly still. Waiting for her to explain what else they had found out.

_Always a Gryffindor._

He sneers to himself, but with a tinge of affection he most effectively ignores.

"Not at first though," she starts. She is no longer looking at either man; instead she is looking down at her hand, the hand with the quill, fingers pulling the white feathers, back and forth.

A breath.

He sees it by the slight rise in her chest, the slow movement of her shoulders.

She looks up, glancing at Draco and then back at her old Professor.

"You know I see the shadows, the grey along the side of normal magic."

A pert nod from Severus.

Draco wonders how he knows and a strange emotion tugs at his middle.

She continues. "Along with that, a greater awareness of elemental magic, and well, blood magic."

This time Draco is pierced with Severus' look.

"You too?" The dark man says, voice deceptively calm.

Deceptive.

Draco notices.

He nods once.

The black eyes move back to Hermione. Draco focuses on those fingers, long delicate fingers, moving, back and forth, back and forth, disrupting the line of feathers, and then smoothing them back.

Only dimly aware of her explanation.

Not really wanting to hear. Not again.

Though he can almost hear her swallow in nervousness, even without the knowledge of it swirling about her person, apparent to him. All too apparent to him.

"I couldn't," she starts again, "not immediately after. After –" she pauses a moment, starts again, "After Harry defeated Voldemort there was a moment of confusion; we were, Draco and I, I mean, just let go from the spell, diminishing it, and I saw the shadows dissipate."

Draco remembers that moment, remembers the look of her specifically, the surprise in her face, hair wild around her head, eyes bright, big, so very, very lovely.

He blinks. Vanishing the thought, refusing to remember what came next.

It is silent in the room and suddenly he is aware that Severus has asked him a question.

His eyes focus on his mentor, meeting the look, seeing something, something almost pitying in their depths.

It makes him stiffen, indignation, though he remains slouched in his chair.

He recalls with ease what the question asked was.

He answers. "No, I have never been able to see the shadows as she does. But I can feel them, much like the feel of the dark arts but not quite as," he tilts his head, "as oily as the dark arts."

"And at that time you didn't feel them?"

Draco shakes his head, "I didn't say that. At the time there was so much magic, both dark and light, I couldn't tell you honestly if I felt the magic slip away or not."

The look, black eyes, still scanning the younger man's face. "When was the first time you recognized the feeling of this shadow?"

A stab.

Of magic, from the witch sitting across the room.

Draco's eyes do not waver from Severus.

"After Weasley's funeral," he tells him with complete honesty, meeting those eyes, inviting him, _wanting _Severus to peer into his mind, look at those events, witness that time after the funeral. Something dark and very much filled with anger, hatred, simmering, wanting his former Professor to see what had happened on that day.

Severus looks away.

"So," Hermione cuts into the moment, aware of something going on but not sure what, but nervous about it all the same. "So, something went wrong, the field was supposed to disappear and it didn't."

The dark man, fingers steepled once more, staring into the fire once more, thinking.

Both of his former students watch this with curiosity and just a small amount of trepidation.

"You were supposed to die Miss Granger," his words, silkiness, quiet, thoughtful.

Hermione winces.

Severus doesn't see, but Draco does.

A firm will, a complete control, that does not have him flinching at the look on her face.

"I think," Severus continues, still thoughtful, "why you didn't die is a very good place to start asking questions."

Hermione slowly bites on her lower lip, quill between her fingers.

"The changes," Draco says suddenly, his mind coming on the answer quickly, logically.

Severus looks over at him and raises an eyebrow.

Draco explains, "The spell, it's been altered; I found that out last night also."

A narrowing of focus, a slight narrowing of eyes, the sudden tenseness of the older man.

"What do you mean?" voice purred, dangerous.

Draco ignores it, a testament to the years between them. "The spell, it's been altered," Draco repeats, half to himself, half to Severus, thinking about what it could mean, questions circling, circling.

Hermione did not die, she was supposed to, they had figured on it, her calculations had told them without a doubt the truth of it. He can remember how her face had looked, white in the morning light, the formula laid out before them. He also remembers his reaction, the tearing at something primitive, a howl of rage in his head.

Pushing thoughts away.

Because.

She had not died, and it meant that something was missing, or, they were missing something.

Hermione takes up the narrative. "We think it's been altered by one of Draco's ancestors, thinking that perhaps the spell is a Malfoy spell. But we were unable to figure out who, or why, or, for that matter, what."

"You do not know what changes were made?" The same voice, this time directed towards Hermione.

"No sir," a quick response, conditioned through the years to the tone of her former Professor.

Grey and brown eyes looking on the dark-haired wizard.

Both holding their breaths for an answer, any answer.

But instead of one, Severus suddenly stands, the room growing smaller as the tall man straightens.

"I must go," he says, even as he places his tea back on the table next to his formerly occupied chair.

Without further explanation or further word, Severus walks silently from the library, the only indication of his departure the sound of the front door closing, echoing in the entry way.

Silence, as both look at the library door with surprise.

Draco is the first to recover, putting his hand up and slowly rubbing at the point between his eyes, a roaring headache coming on. He can feel it behind his eyes and knows it comes from too many nights without proper sleep.

"You're tired," the voice, lilting, across the room.

The tugging at his chest, the flare of it, white heat and beauty.

He opens his eyes, keeping them carefully blank, meeting Hermione's.

She looks away almost immediately, back at the fire, but not before he sees the expression there, an expression he cannot understand her having. Not after what he had…

Well, not after.

"I think he's right," she says abruptly, her own hand coming up to swipe a curl from her face, that damn curl that tugs at Draco's compulsion and pulls, and pulls, and pulls.

He looks away from her, out of the window realizing with a start that afternoon has slowly bled away to a gathering evening.

Wondering how long he'd stood looking over the sea.

He glances back at Hermione just to find her watching him again. This time her face is just as blank as his.

"I think he is right," she says quietly, repeats. "I think we need to figure out why I didn't die. Every formula I ran, every indication, pointed towards my death, so why am I still here?"

_Ron._

This time he can hear the thought almost as if she shouted it inches from his face. But instead of anger, instead of the roiling fury that usually comes with it, he only feels tiredness, a tiredness breaking into his bones, whirling about his person.

And sadness.

Not of the death of Weasley, but of the death of so many, of the darkness of what happened then.

Because of the witch with brown eyes the colour of amber in darkness, sitting in front of him ten years later.

Flickering flame, torches, fireplace.

Magic.

Flickering, flickering.

She stands up, gathering her parchments and her quills. "I have to go. I have classes in the morning and I still have to write up the report for the Board meeting tomorrow."

"I will go with you," the words out before he stops them.

She looks up, startled. "To Hogwarts?"

He shakes his head, "No, tomorrow, I will attend the Board meeting with you tomorrow."

Relief, or he thinks its relief, passes over her features before it tones down to acceptance. "That would be brilliant. It's at four, but my last class is at two if you want to come by my office to go over the write up, then we can Apparate directly there from Hogwarts."

Draco nods once.

Another pause.

Both thinking on the events of the day, neither of them knowing where to step, where the path is. Because for so long they've both been given their paths by others, told to go down it, sometimes with a none too gentle shove in the direction chosen.

No one is giving them the knowledge now.

And neither of them knows how to make the decision.

"Okay then," Hermione finally says, parchments in hand, head slightly tilted. "Tomorrow?"

Draco slowly nods, feeling, even at the same time, the almost hesitant touch of her magic, barely there, a whisper along his wards.

And then disappointment, clearly defined on her features when his wards hold.

She leaves the library in a twirl of movement, the door closing behind her softly with a click, not another word spoken.

He sits there until he can no longer smell lavender and autumn.


	20. Chapter 20

She stares at herself in the mirror

She stares at herself in the mirror. Familiar eyes, familiar smile, the slightly upturned nose, the freckles across her face, the mass of curls framing the sharp chin, the slanted eyebrows.

Familiar to her.

But different too. Now.

Changes. Again.

The first time she and Ron had sex she'd looked at herself in the mirror, tracing the line of her jaw, and had wondered at the differences, or the lack of differences in her face.

She had thought, at the time, that such an act would surely shine through somehow.

But she had looked the same, no different, a young girl of seventeen who had finally lost her virginity. Nothing more than that, just a young girl with bushy hair, brown eyes, and a slightly pouted lower lip.

She'd been disappointed.

Leaning closer, she studies the shadows under her eyes, the bruising there, the slightly frizzy curls around her face, along her cheek, one curl lying against her lips.

She blows at the curl and when it sticks, brings up a finger to move it away.

Pausing.

In mid action.

Remembering the narrowing of a pair of silver eyes at just such an action.

Slowly completing it, pulling the hair away and pushing it behind her ear, wondering, wondering.

The absent smile she gives herself in the mirror is of a woman understanding the power she has.

Truly realising it for the first time.

A smile from the ages, on a witch who has had very little to smile about in the last ten years.

And even the years before that.

But the smile is not nice.

And she has come so far from the girl of seventeen.

A reminder from her charmed clock makes her aware of the time. An owl from Draco earlier informed her that something had come up and he would meet her at the Ministry.

A short, to the point note with only "DM" as his signature.

She'd snorted into her tea at the predictability of him.

Now however, she is late due to a last minute detention with a Slytherin student, a seventh year who, in a voice very much like another Slytherin she used to know, informed her that for a Muggle she was almost attractive.

Should have been a Slytherin, he'd said, a tall boy with shockingly black hair against pale skin.

She had taken points from him with relish, a smile flickering across her lips.

Magic, flickering, flickering.

He'd paled at it.

She'd dismissed him.

And then went back to her room to look in the mirror.

Wondering, wondering.

But now she is late, gathering her things and trying to ignore the thrum of something insistent under her rib cage.

If she were honest with herself she'd label it as nerves.

But she isn't and ignores the feeling entirely.

She Apparates to the Ministry.

Hermione is not entirely surprised to find that she is earlier than Draco and settles herself in one of the chairs in the front lobby to wait for him, pulling out the report she wrote up this morning before breakfast.

Reviewing it for language that would cause uproar.

Especially from the current head of the Auror department.

She twirls a quill between her fingers, going over everything, mentally noting passages that might cause confusion.

Until.

A slight feel of commotion, a barely felt change to the air, to the magic swirling about the lobby. Panic, fear, curiosity, disgust, desire, appreciation, ricocheting off the walls.

Hermione does not have to look to know that Draco has walked through the doors.

But she does.

And the feeling in her stomach strengthens, along with a sparkle of heat moving up and down her spine.

Then her eyes meet his and she stills.

_Something is wrong._

She knows it immediately, though his face is carefully blank, a polite mask as he passes people, inclining his head to several, making his way to where she sits.

Rising cautiously, Hermione does not take her eyes away from him as he walks towards her. Tall, lithe, clad in perfectly tailored black robes, moving with the grace of a feline, silent, even in the sudden silence of the lobby.

White hair glinting.

She is vaguely aware of the looks coming their way, curiosity rising substantially at the image of the ex-Death Eater and The Hermione Granger meeting anywhere, especially at the Ministry.

She barely notices.

Most of her attention is on the man in front of her, dark eyes, grey but different, harder, looking down on her, hair immaculate, black robes immaculate, but wrong, tensed.

"Is everything ok?" she asks, low, as soon as he within hearing distance of the near whisper.

Something flashes; she senses it, though she can't feel his magic any more than she could yesterday, but something, underneath.

"Fine," he says and his voice is fine, normal, but wrong.

She knows it is are wrong.

"Shall we?" Perfectly polite.

The tone, instantly causing unease. Reverberating.

"Of course."

An elegant hand, waving her forward.

She moves past him, her instincts are screaming at her.

_Never lose sight of the enemy._

And then.

_Constant vigilance._

Tense muscles, tensing, tensing. He falls into step beside her. A position of neutrality, equality.

Hermione wonders if he does it on purpose.

Tensions uncoiling, if only slightly.

Because of his money, title, pure-blood ancestry and his notoriously single status, Draco is a very eligible bachelor in the Wizarding world. Hermione has never paid attention and is surprised by the blatant looks thrown his way as they make their way towards the Board Room.

One woman, a taller woman with perfectly smooth black hair and black eyes actually moves towards them and falls into step.

"Draco." Her voice cultured.

"Lislie, how are you?"

Those tones. Polite. Distant.

Hermione can see the shadows moving about him, swirling, swirling, so dark they could almost be black.

Fear.

She tastes it on her tongue. And doesn't understand it.

She can't feel him, can't feel his magic, just a low and distant throb at the base of her spine, but she can see his magic, at least, she can see the grey magic.

The grey turning darker, almost black, storm clouds rolling off the sea.

She doesn't hear what the Lislie girl says to him but as they approach the Board Room she sees the darkness swirling about him stab with brilliant colours of red, blood red, striking, deathly.

Hermione jerks her head up to look at his face, reaching, reaching, even as she is once more listening to their conversation.

"Thank you Lislie, I did receive the invitation but I have prior plans." The tone. Perfect. The face. Perfect.

But wrong.

Hermione trying to remember what it was that Lislie said and then realising with a start the woman had mentioned Draco's father, just barely, in passing, more about the Malfoy Estate than Lucius, but it had caused the violent reds still pulsing about the lean wizard.

The fear tickling Hermione's thoughts and the underside of her belly tightens and hardens.

They reach the Board Room and she is vaguely aware of Draco dismissing the woman. He opens the door for Hermione to pass through and as she does so, reaching as she passes, reaching.

And finding nothing.

But coldness.

Hermione pulls her thoughts away from the wizard behind her, away from the implications of his sudden change, and back to the room in front of her.

Composing. Control.

It's probably all her imagination anyway.

Most of the people who were there at the first meeting are there again speaking amongst themselves. Without thought, Hermione walks over to where Harry is talking with Minerva, both of them giving her smiles a she approaches.

Though she swears the look Minerva gives her is extra inquisitive.

Harry is also studying her. "We had dinner this weekend at the house; I was going to invite you but no one knew where you were."

A jump. In nerves. In shame. Though she doesn't know where the shame comes from.

Moody saves her from having to answer by announcing his presence with the slamming of open of the door and the muttering of a very unhappy individual.

Harry just barely quirks an eyebrow at Hermione and she has to stifle a smile, reminded suddenly of their days, back before. Conspiracies under the Invisible Cloak, sneaking about, times that were dark but seemed so much lighter.

"Everyone is here," Harry says, dismantling the image as he walks towards the head of the table. Magic of Ministry robes lay about his shoulders, shoulders that have fallen easily into the role he once vehemently denied wanting.

Hermione moves around the table and settles herself next to Draco, noticing, even as she sits, that he appears easy, arrogant, a look of polite disinterest on his face, but also noticing the line of his jaw and his eyes, always his eyes.

She never knew the colour grey could have so many different connotations.

But then Harry calls upon her participation and she forgets the paradox of the man beside her and launches into a lecture on the progress they have made in the last several weeks.

It doesn't take her long.

As she speaks she watches the different reactions around the table; the growing paranoid anger of Moody, the thoughtful intelligent gaze of Remus, Minerva's worried frown, and finally, Harry, whose face grows paler and paler as she finishes up with what they know, as she states with clarity and without waver in her voice that she was a sacrifice.

She sees and understands the guilt.

Shadowing his very face.

And the anger, underneath it, tightly controlled. A change from the boy Harry once was.

Silence.

Her last words hanging in the air.

"I don't think I fully understand." Remus breaks the silence with a quiet tone.

Hermione looks over at him.

He continues. "The spell was supposed to kill you? Immediately?"

Hermione sees where he is confused, shaking her head. "No. The nature of the binding spell was to allow the transfer of my Muggle magic to the purebred wizard, but it was a slow transfer. My death should have come at the moment the field was dismantled, not before; only then would the spell have been complete."

Another silence.

Heavy. Hermione feels the eyes of Harry on her. Judging.

"And you did this, knowing what you did?" Remus asks, this time gently. "That this field you created, this magical dimension, was the slow transfer of your magic to Malfoy?"

Hermione nods once, feeling the eyes around the room, heavy on her.

Pressing.

Suddenly she can't breath, the pressure too much, the eyes, the judging, the suspicions, the questions, reactions to something ten years gone.

Choking. Leaning on the table for support, panic clawing at her throat.

And then a cold voice.

Cutting in, cutting through.

"Why did you allow my father to live?"

A startled gasp, somewhere to Hermione's right, a choked cough, an uproar almost immediately. Hermione hears none of this, sees none of this, her eyes instantly on Draco who sits, still ever so elegant, ever so controlled, slouching in his chair as if he had not just asked such a question.

As if he asked about the weather.

Or the latest Quidditch statistics.

Roaring.

In her ears, things suddenly coming clear.

Draco looks up at her and for a moment, the briefest of moments, less than a blink really, she sees pain, horror, and fear, swimming in a sea of sadness so deep it swallows her even as he breaks the gaze and looks away.

She sits down slowly.

Watching. Tense.

The chaos, the noise in the room, rising to a crescendo, overwhelming.

"I pardoned him," the voice, Harry's voice, silencing the noise of the room.

"You what?" Moody, magical eye swirling. "You fool boy, do you know what that man…"

"Enough." Harry, looking calm and collected.

Changes. Changes.

Silence in the room as all look at the Ministry of Magic and not at Harry Potter. But the same.

Changes.

Tension. So tight Hermione can feel it cutting through her body, tightening, squeezing.

"Are you going to explain Mr. Potter, or would you like me too," a new voice, coming from the door. A voice everyone knows, liquid darkness in the light of day.

Hermione looks along with everyone else at Severus Snape, standing just inside the door. A dark presence.

"Severus," Harry says, and the first name of his ex-professor sounds strange, a story told in that one address. "Thank you for joining us."

Severus nods slightly and walks to the chair on the other side of Draco, seating himself with the same careful surety he does everything.

"Boy," Alastor warns suddenly, clearly not liking the delay.

Harry nods. "Of course. An explanation."

Changes. Harry looks over and locks gazes with Draco, green eyes never wavering. "Your father was given full pardon after the Final Battle because of his contribution of this spell you and Hermione cast. It was decided in a counsel consisting of myself, Minerva, Severus and the explicit instructions of Dumbledore, to allow Lucius to live."

On the brink of an uproar.

Harry holds up his hand, looking at the people at the conference table, meeting their eyes, one by one, challenging, daring.

He finishes with Draco and holds it.

Continuing. "Your father was given pardon; however, all his magic was stripped from him except the ability to do basic protection spells. That is the absolute limit of his capability. He was also forced into self exile."

Silence.

And then Draco's cold voice. Decidedly amused.

"You made him a Muggle?"

Hermione winces at the tone in his voice, at the harshness underlying it, and the slight murder tingeing its under belly.

"In essence," Harry replies, looking away from Draco to encompass the entire room again.

"This is a plot, this whole thing is a plot," Alastor stated, his voice rising.

"Alastor," this time from Minerva. She has her stern look about her, the professor look. "That is quite enough. If you would like to see the full Pensieve of what occurred, as well as the documentation left by Dumbledore, then you are more than welcome to it but the decision was made ten years ago."

Hermione sees Draco's fist out of the corner of her eye, the fist without the red stone, lying on black fabric, tightening, tightening, feels the sudden pull on her compulsion, the flare of heat in her chest.

She does not move. Body still. Conversation swirling about her.

Closing her eyes, a moment, brief, and then reaching out.

Compulsion.

Strengthening, vibrating.

Still so very in control. So very in control.

Opening her eyes she catches Remus looking at her oddly.

She smiles.

Not realizing her smile is not one to comfort the former werewolf.

It has death in it.

"You didn't know?" Another voice, nicer, sweeter, only slightly tinged with something else.

Draco looks over at Tonks, his cousin, sitting easily by her husband.

He looks away and glances over at Severus.

"Not until last night," he says.

Cold. Polite.

Several people shiver visibly.

Severus is not one of them.

Hermione is not one of them.

Moody jumps to his feet, hands on the table, leaning, "I don't believe you," he spits out.

Another voice. "Mr. Moody." This time it is Harry.

Moody looks over at the Minister of Magic.

Harry continues. "You have two options right now; either leave or sit down. I will show you, after this meeting, the evidence that Mr. Malfoy was indeed unaware of this; you can meet with Minerva, Severus and I, but right now we are not here to discuss this."

Moody continues to stand, weighing, judging, cataloguing. He finally sinks slowly back into his seat.

Harry nods once and Hermione feels a rush of pride and love for her long-term friend.

Some of that must have shown on her face because Harry, catching her gaze, gives a brief smile. Barely there, but enough for friends of so long.

Harry continues. "I realise this is a shock for everyone but three people in this room. I do realise it is something that needs to be addressed, and it will be addressed." Harry looks on Draco again. "There are reasons, very good reasons, this information has not been shared but now is not the time to discuss it."

A silence.

A pause.

"Wrong." Draco, colder, frigid.

Hermione looks over at him, scanning his profile, understanding, but not quite understanding.

Draco continues. "The issue of my father is directly related to what is being discussed. Did it not occur to either of you, Potter, or you Severus, that this could have been set up by my father?"

"Of course." An almost bored answer from Severus. "I was quite aware of that possibility. When your father came to me and gave me the book I was instantly suspicious. However, your father is, first and foremost, a selfish man intent on surviving. He did what he did because he believed it would save his life."

Silence. Growing. Growing.

"With every intention of taking her life in return." Draco's voice, low, guttural.

A fist, clenching against black fabric.

A shift in the air.

A white heat, pressing, pressing.

"Yes." The answer.

Moments.

Moments.

The fist relaxes.

And something in Hermione cracks, bleeding, whimpering. Just for a moment she had thought, just for a moment, a glimpse of something, something she doesn't know she was looking for, something.

Voices, circling again, discussing, but Hermione keeps her gaze on the side of Draco's face, and as if pulled by that something, vibrating, he turns and locks gazes with her.

Face blank.

No emotion.

Eyes. Grey. Indifferent.

The loss of something she never knew she had. The loss of something ten years gone.

Pieces. Floating in a northern sea.

With a gasp.

Drowning.

"Professor Granger understood the decision she was making at the time."

The voice of an old professor, ingrained, snapping her out of her revere.

She focuses. Focus.

Pain. Nails digging into her palm.

Focus.

Harry's eyes on her. She meets them and suddenly, just as suddenly as it came, she regains thought, focus.

In those green eyes she sees pain. Almost unbearable.

Before they look away and the Minister of Magic is back in Harry's place.

"This is the extent of what you have learned so far?"

Hermione takes up her narrative. "Yes. We believe something went wrong with the spell making it so two things happened: I didn't die and the field did not dissipate. I believe that the two are intrinsically combined."

A moment of silence.

And then.

"Well, we can't have you going and knocking yourself off," Remus says, voice laughing, and the tension in the room lessens. Several degrees.

Hermione smiles at him. "No, I prefer that wasn't the decision."

"Then the only choice in the matter is for you and Mr. Malfoy to continue on with your research and development." Minerva says this with her no-nonsense voice.

Hermione inclines her head, feeling more than seeing Draco do the same next to her.

Harry nods once. "Quite. Then we are done here for today. Minerva, Severus, if you would be kind enough to wait in my office, I'll be right there. Hermione, if you would stay a moment, I would like to speak with you."

She knows what this is and nods. "Of course."

She does not watch Draco leave, though she watches everyone else, waiting, the door closing behind the final person until it is just her and Harry.

He makes it to her in four strides, enfolding her in his arms. She rests her head against his chest and breathes the familiar scent, a scent that reminds her of years gone by, of times both good and bad and the deep connection she has with the man in front of her.

"Why Mione?"

The question strangled, horrid in its pain.

"It was the only way Harry," she answers into his chest.

She feels his arms tighten around her.

She leans into his warmth, in the familiarity and then pulls back.

He lets her go, though only somewhat, hands cupping her shoulders, face serious, a dearly loved face looking down on her.

"You could have told me."

Hermione raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly and suddenly it's all right. Just then. It's all right.

"Or not," Harry says with somewhat of a sheepish smile moving over his own features.

Hermione places her hands over Harry's.

"Or not," she repeats.

Harry drags her into another bone crushing hug. "Merlin Mione, don't know what I would do without you."

They stand there for a moment, comfort in their long existence.

Until.

"And what would Mrs. Potter say to such a touching scene." A familiar voice, snide, tones from all their childhood, smirk clearly intertwined with the words.

Harry gives Hermione another quick squeeze and then steps away. "Sod off, Malfoy," he says, moving around Draco and then out the door of the Board Room.

Hunter and hunted.

Hermione can feel it even as she looks on the man leaning against the door jam.

"Really, after all this time, I would have thought you two would have at least learned how to hide your," a hand, waving in the air, "whatever that was."

Words. Memories.

Hermione waves her hand in imitation of him. "That 'whatever' was called friendship. Something that you have a hard time understanding I believe."

A raised eyebrow.

Mocking.

And suddenly Hermione bursts into laughter. Not able to stop it because it's so ridiculous, his words, her words, the whole bloody mess is so completely ridiculous.

Changes.

Instead of stalking away in a huff of indignation Draco smiles at her.

Her gut clenches in response. Warmth, pooling at the easy open nature of the smile.

But then it's gone.

Replaced by indifference once more.

Enough though, for Hermione, enough, if only it was a glimpse.

"Dinner," he announces.

Hermione startles. "What?"

"Dinner. I have some things I need to discuss with you."

Hermione scans his face, instantly on alert, something not quite right.

"Okay," she says slowly.

And there, just there, a sudden glint of a feral grin before Draco turns away.

"Excellent," he throws over his shoulder.


	21. Chapter 21

Ten years prior.

They lay on the grass under the tree, stars glittering overhead.

"Huh, so that was you? From Snape's own cupboard no less," Draco said next to her, squinting his eyes slightly to make the stars waver in his sight. "Very Slytherin of you."

"That's insulting," Hermione replied, laughter lacing her voice.

He unscrewed his eyes and the stars cleared once more. "Nope, that is a very great compliment. You should be honored."

Hermione snorted. "Ok. I think you're over-estimating what being called a Slytherin means to me."

Draco shook his head, liking the tickle of grass against his neck. "No, you wouldn't think it was an honour, but everyone else would."

That comment did cause her to laugh. "Yes. Everyone else thinks it is an honour to be called something that stands for sneakiness and stabbing people in the back."

Draco smirked. "Now, now, we don't stab people in the back; a very Muggle thing to do, that is. We just hex them."

Laughter, ringing in the night.

Hermione rolled over from her back to her side, propping her head on her hand. She could barely make out Draco's face in the darkness. "Honestly though, you never did anything like that? Somehow I doubt it."

Draco was squinting his eyes again at the stars. Blurry, not blurry, blurry.

"Nope." He said. "Kept my nose clean for the most part."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, calling people names and getting into duels with Harry are very good examples of keeping your nose clean."

Not blurry. Blinking several times to clear his sight completely.

He looked over at her, a smile playing about his lips. "Well, I wasn't the one that stole potion ingredients from a professor."

"There is that," she said, something like pride in her voice.

This caused the small smile on Draco's face to grow, just slightly. "You are proud of it, stealing the potion ingredients. See. Very Slytherin."

Silence. Comfortable. The tree over their head rustling in the autumn night breeze.

"You know what drove me mad about you?" Hermione finally started, looking over the body next to her and out towards where she could just barely make out the Burrow lights.

"Besides my good looks and charming manner?"

She looked back down at Draco, rolling her eyes, "Not mad as in good, mad as in irritated."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure the list is long and lengthy, after all, I did manage to call you names, try to hex you and your friends, everything a good Slytherin should do to annoying and bossy Gryffindors."

Hermione snorted. "Wow, was that a bit of humility coming out of your mouth?"

A smirk, playing about his mouth, eyes grey and filled with humor. "Don't get used to it."

Hermione smiled. "I won't. But seriously, you know what drove me crazy was your seemingly effortless ability in studies."

Draco laughed, an honest laugh that started in his chest. Short. Warm. "Of course that would be it, school work."

This time she smiled at herself. "I know, quite stupid really, but I never saw you study, ever, write papers, go to the library, none of that, yet you always got good marks."

He rolled from his back to his side now, propping his head up in the same exact manner as the girl in front of him, his face strangely serious. "How much did you see me though, Granger? In class, at meals, occasionally in the hallway, but you didn't go out of your way to see beyond that."

The tone was slightly accusing, slightly hurt.

Hermione shook her head, as best she could in her position at least. "Come on, and what would you have done if suddenly I was wandering around trying to figure out what you did in your spare time? Probably call me a Mudblood and have your cronies terrorize me. We were enemies Malfoy, don't you remember?"

Silence, as both of them looked on each other, studying one another's faces.

"Were enemies?" Draco finally asked, breaking the silence but not the tension that suddenly grew between them.

"Were," Hermione confirmed, firmly, without hesitation.

Draco's gaze flickered down to her lips for a brief second and Hermione's breath hitched.

He fell to his back.

She followed suit.

Tensions slowly ebbing away with the progression of the moon and stars overhead.

"What was it like?" she finally asked.

"What?" Came the one worded reply from the dark.

"The Slytherin Common Room."

At one point in their relationship, even two months prior, he would have responded suspiciously.

That night he answered truthfully. "I suppose like any other, too much noise, people doing homework, messing around."

A pause and when he continued she could hear the smirk in his voice. "We didn't sit around planning the demise of human kind or figuring out new and creative ways to hurt people, if that's what you are thinking."

Hermione shook her head against the ground. "No, I didn't think that."

A snort.

She continued, "Ok, maybe I thought that a bit, but well, the lot of you were so horrible to us that I just wondered if there was any friendship within the actual House."

A lengthy pause, so lengthy that Hermione started to get nervous, wondering if perhaps she had said too much.

Then he answered and in his voice was something she had never heard before. "Friendship to a Slytherin is different then to a Gryffindor." He said this slowly as if not wanting to let go of the words.

Hermione did not move, instinctively understanding the need to stay silent.

He continued. "There is a certain kind of loyalty within the Slytherin house, loyalty to bloodlines, titles, and that causes friendships."

"That's not friendship," Hermione said quietly, afraid her words would cause him to erupt in anger and indignation.

Instead of anger Draco responded with the same quiet tone she used. "It is, just different. One of the things you and I view differently, I guess."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked from where she lay on her side, curious despite herself.

Draco scanned her face. "Well, I don't understand how Gryffindors can be so cruel to their own."

Hermione rose from her back, sitting up and looking over at him. "We are not cruel to our own."

Draco watched her from where he still lay, mesmerized for a moment by the curls blowing across her face and the way she was looking at him with ill concealed irritation.

He didn't sit up, continuing to lay there next to her, an eyebrow raised, barely noticeable in the dim light.

"No?" He answered.

"No!" She said, not leaving, but irritation spiking.

He knew if she were standing she'd have a fist on her hip. As it were, her chin rose several inches into the air.

"What about your first year?" He asked, quietly, almost gently.

Hermione stared at him and he saw her slowly realise what he meant, saw it in the slight slouch of her shoulders and the sudden sadness crossing her features.

"They weren't exactly nice to you," he continued.

Hermione brought her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, facing Draco next to her, propping her chin on her knees.

"I was an annoying know it all," she responded quietly, sadly.

Draco felt something strange move through his gut.

He wanted her to smile again.

He nudged her with his foot, a little hard, causing her to rock. "You still are an annoying know it all."

She regained her balance and shot him a mock glare, smile tugging at her lips. "And you should be talking, ferret."

Peace. Regained.

Until Hermione sighed and looked back over to where the lights of the Burrow shone. "I suppose we should go back, the boys are probably done with their game."

Draco didn't want to. For a moment, just a little while, he'd felt normal, not a supposed Death Eater, not a spy for the Order.

Forgetting just for a little while that soon he would be summoned again.

Normal, talking to a girl under a tree on an autumn night.

He wanted to hold onto it, as long as he could.

Even if it was a mirage and not reality.

He rolled over onto his stomach, laying his head down on his bent arms. "You can go on," he said, mumbled through the hair now covering his face.

Hermione looked down at him, lying out before her. She'd noticed earlier that he had grown taller, his shoulders broadened from when she knew him in school.

And other changes.

He wore faded Muggle jeans, torn around the knees and a threadbare blue t-shirt. His white hair glowed in the moonlight, long, falling over his face, feet bare.

He didn't look like the Slytherin Prince, the Malfoy heir.

_A friend._

The title floating through her brain.

Hermione uncurled herself and resumed her position on her back, closer this time though, close enough that if she moved her arm by her side, just a slight bit, she could touch him.

A sigh of pleasure next to her, barely heard, a whisper more than anything.

She smiled and moved her arm.

They lay on the grass under the tree, stars glittering over head.


	22. Chapter 22

_"To hold back the sun, to enjoy the end of its absence. To shut your eye." H. Cixous_

Wine, red, almost black, in the candlelight. Swirling, swirling, in the crystal held by an aristocratic white hand with long fingers.

Draco watches the wine with deceptively vague eyes, his entire attention however, on the witch sitting across from him.

Hermione is also watching him twirl the wine in his glass, chin propped in her hands, elbows on the table across from him.

The remains of a meal between them.

The bottle of wine, half gone.

"But you didn't talk to him?" she finally asks, breaking the silence.

A slight shake to his head. "I couldn't. Severus put wards on the property. I couldn't get within a hundred yards of it."

Silence. Draco feels Hermione's eyes on him, searching his face. He keeps it perfectly blank, watching the wine.

Swirling. Swirling.

"Are you angry?"

Draco lifts his eyes from the wine he is holding and meets Hermione's. Something catches, pulls at the softness there.

He does not look away. Strength of will. Or perhaps, because he can't.

"Angry," he repeats, tasting the word, moving it about his mouth, on his tongue. "Angry." He pauses. "No. I am not angry."

Another silence. Hermione reaches for her own wine and raises it to her lips, sipping at it, earthy tones, slightly pungent.

Draco watches her.

His hand, tightening about a crystal stem, just slightly.

She puts her wine back on the table, tilting her head, candlelight catching at the curls about her face, a multitude of color. "You will kill him." A statement, not a question.

"Yes." A reply. Devoid of emotion and so much more terrifying because of it.

Hermione nods. She once would not have understood. She understands now.

"Will you speak with Severus?" This one a question.

Draco swirls the wine. Around and around. He sips it. Swirls it again.

"I will. If for nothing but an explanation."

She watches the wine. "Of course," she murmurs.

He puts the glass down and she looks away, back at his face. Watching, searching, but she does not see what she wants to see and looks back down. "But this is not why we are here. What you discovered about the binding spell? Is it something one of your ancestors created?"

A slight nod. "Yes, both times. The original spell was created several thousand years ago; the alteration was in the last a hundred years."

Raising the glass to sip once more.

Hermione bites her lip and stares thoughtfully at the table.

Draco places his wine glass down on the table so as not to shatter it.

She continues. "So, the information, you believe it is at this house where your father is staying."

"I do."

"Well then, we will just get Severus to dismantle the wards."

Hermione refocuses on his face. Expectant.

A pause. "That would not be entirely… wise."

Knowledge, flickering about her eyes, across her face. "Yes. I suppose not."

Draco leans slightly forward in his chair, just slightly, just enough.

"There's more," he says quietly.

Very quietly, his voice dark, liquid, and he sees her shiver. Slightly. Just enough.

Hermione registers his tone before she registers his words, something slow, warm, smooth, moving through her body.

Then her mind catches up.

"What do you mean?"

Draco picks up his wine, swirling it before he sips.

Hermione forgets her question. Hands on her lap clenching.

"How much do you know of blood magic?"

Hermione raises her eyes from where she was staring at his lips, looking at him in surprise. "What?" she asks, somewhat stupidly, inwardly yelling at herself to focus.

A smirk, just slightly, pulling at one side of his mouth, amusement, knowledge, flashing in his eyes.

Hermione unclenches her fists.

"Blood magic," she begins, "is associated between blood lines, mostly used in the time of dire need or incredible happiness. It is the most protective form of magic that exists."

A pause.

"Why?" she asks.

Draco places the wine glass down, leaning further towards the table, further towards the witch across from him. The look of curiosity in her eyes, warring with something else, something darker, hotter, calling to him, whispering. Whispering.

"Can you feel blood magic?"

Hermione tilts her head, just slightly. "Of course. You know that."

Draco leans his elbows on the table. Closer.

"Have you always been able to feel blood magic?"

Slowly, he watches in fascination as she processes what he just asked. Slowly. Dawning understanding.

"No." She finally answers, not meeting his eyes, staring down at the glass of wine before her.

Red, almost black.

"The original spell," Draco continues. "I believe it was a protective spell, blood magic."

The lip. Pulled between teeth.

Rigid control that does not allow Draco to move from where he sits.

"But, that's impossible," she finally answers.

"Why?"

Hermione leans forward without thought, intent on what she is thinking. "Blood magic is just that, blood magic; we don't share blood, we are not related in any way."

An eyebrow raising. Pale silver eyes glowing, growing harder.

A hand, delicate fingers uncurled, rising up to her chest, placing it at the point under her chin, heat, warmth, spreading, spreading.

A flare of heat so hot, so demanding under his chin. A reaction, a response.

"Oh," she whispers.

Flashes of memory, her wand tip against his chest, the slow rise of a single drop of red blood, almost black in the firelight, pooling, a winter's chill spreading through her hand, her wrist, up her arm, magic, swirling, swirling, and his wand, placed in the same exact spot.

The trickle of blood between her breasts.

Warmth, even as the cold froze her skin.

Present. Flicker of candlelight, the low, almost indistinct murmur of people around them and the louder roar of blood in their ears.

"But how? How is that part of the spell? What does it mean?"

Draco does not move, rigid against the table, an almost welcome pain at the edge of it digging into his stomach.

Control.

"I don't know."

Three words.

Lack of control.

Paradox.

Transgression.

Taboo.

Silver and brown across the table from one another. Too close. Not close enough.

Memories. Ten years prior. The last several weeks. Heavy. So very heavy between them.

"You don't know?" Hermione says, anything, anything to break this contact, a distant thought screaming at her, reminding her, but falling away, falling away in wake of this, whatever this is, warming, heating, pooling. The quicksilver eyes of a man in front of her. The compulsion a desire wrapping, curling, stroking up her spine.

Draco watches. Sees it all, playing about her features, the slight blush along her cheekbones and the flutter, the ever so slight flutter of the pulse in her neck. He sees it.

Reaches out with one finger, across the distance, so far, not far enough, touching that point, right there, the flutter of a heartbeat, racing, racing, skin against skin.

The contact searing.

Instantaneous.

No thought.

Reaction. Action.

Action and reaction.

A whirlwind of movement, galleons clattering to the table, swirl of black cloaks, hands, clasped, contact, too much, too much, the cold of winter night, the pop of Apparation, and there, just there.

Oh gods.

She cries into his mouth crushing against hers, his body slamming her against a wall, and it's glorious, wondrous, lips searing, tongues battling. And hands, everywhere, gods everywhere. She feels the smoothness of his fingers, reaching up, circling her waist, touching, skimming the skin.

A moan against her throat, he licks at her pulse, kisses along her jaw line. So hard, so hot against her, he feels her body quaking against the wall.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he sears against her skin, his hands moving up her skin, up her waist, along her rib cage, cradling.

She whimpers, back arching, his hands finding her breast, the nipple, circling with a thumb, around and around, his lips nipping, behind her ear, up her jaw line.

Her hands intertwined in white strands.

The silkiness. The fine nature of it. She holds onto him, thrilling in it, everything pooling, pooling, too much heat, too much fire.

Too many clothes.

Shrugging out of her cloak, pulling his away from his shoulders, memorizing, hands moving over the lean muscles there, mesmerized, focused. Finally. So focused.

Until he tears her shirt away, and the cold of the room, the frigid nature of it, reaches her skin. Just a moment.

Then, his lips, her skin, he kisses at her collarbone, just there, and there, memories and dreams. Kissing along her collarbone and the taste, gods the taste, he remembers it; ten years gone, she tastes the same, skin against his tongue.

Her hands rocking against him, his shirt open, and those delicate fingers, playing, playing, tweaking at his nipple, along his sides, one finger dipping down underneath the line of his trousers.

A growl against her skin, arms pulling her against him, contact of chest against chest, skin, a whirl of movement, one step, two steps.

Falling, falling.

The bed rising up to meet them and she almost cries at his weight, at the perfect nature of his body against hers, his mouth pursuing one breast, one nipple, tongue licking, flickering, teeth nipping, a hand playing with the other one, rubbing a thumb across and back again.

Back arching upwards. The hand moves, the mouth moves, lining the bottom of her rib cage with open mouthed kisses, her hands in his hair, as it falls along her skin, so soft, so perfect, memories, but more, and a pooling of desire so fearsome she whimpers when those hands finds her pants, unbuttons them and pulls them off her legs.

Cold. Without contact.

He stares down at her, at multi-colored curls fanned out around her head on the black of the bed, at her flushed cheeks, the rapid fall and rise of her chest, and those eyes, liquid brown, warm, desire clear, heated.

So beautiful, so incredible, a moment.

And she bites her lip.

"Merlin," he growls.

And he is there, against her, again, rough trousers against her naked legs, pulling him towards her, towards her, and it's too much, too much. Frenzied kisses, she rains them on his face even as his hands remember, memorizes, even as her own hands knead his shoulders, his chest, pushing, bruising with delicate fingertips.

And it's too much, too much, suddenly, too much, and she brings those fingers to his trousers, unbuttoning them, hurried, shaky fingers. She needs him now, now, her entire body screaming, and he groans, her hand coming down, cupping him, silky hardness against her hand.

White hair coming down, shadowing his face, resting his forehead against her chest as she moves her hands down slowly, cupping, and then back up, one thumb coming across the head, swirling the liquid there, down again.

"Gods Hermione, gods," he says against her chest, the breath causing her to shiver, sensitive, so sensitive.

And it's not enough, not enough. His head coming up, kissing along her jaw, again, down, again, and then down her neck, pausing at the fluttering pulse, the beating pulse, nipping, down, licking against the hollow of her throat, down, one breast, twirling around with his tongue, twirling.

And it's not enough.

One motion and his pants are gone and there, just there, fingers, bodies, moving against each other, and the contact, the contact so much, not enough, skin against skin, fingers pressing, harder, harder, a pant of breath.

Pausing, questioning, and there, just there.

Stilling, arms holding him up on either side of her, looking down on her, eyes burning, poised, heat against her, silkiness against her folds and he stares down at her and she looks up at him, and in her face so much, so much he can't read, so much he can, and in his the same, the same.

Opposites.

So very different.

Until he slowly slides himself into her heat, never losing eye contact, never looking away, slowly, slowly, and the warmth, the fullness of it apparent in the look between them, in the quicksilver eyes and the chocolate ones, sharing, a moment, a moment.

Full, so very full, and she brings her arms up, wrapping them around his body, slowly, never looking away, her hips coming up to meet his, slowly, filling, as far as she can, as far as he can.

And stopping.

Breath. The only sound in the room.

And then movement.

Slow at first, measured, until she can't anymore, until the feel of him, his hands, his lips coming down on her neck, the rightness of it, the heat, pooling in her womb, spreading through her, and she closes her eyes, feeling him, and gods its right, its perfect. Her entire being thrills at the feel of him moving in her.

And he closes his eyes, bringing his lips down to taste her skin there, and there, her arms holding him close, his arms coming around her to hold her closer still. The contact of skin against skin, chest against chest, and if possible, the deepening of his thrust making her gasp, making him moan, a growl, faster, faster.

And the magic, suddenly it's there, no longer warded, no longer buried. It's about them, circling, circling, their pace moving faster, faster, rhythm falling away, her lips coming down on to his shoulder and kissing, licking, bucking upwards, no control, her mind swirling with colour, with magic, with so much, silver eyes and white hair and the feel of his skin, the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him inside her, there, just finally, there.

And he throws his head back, pushing, once, twice, three times, pushing, pushing, and in the end, in the end he explodes in the clenching of her womb, explodes with her name on his lips, arms holding her against him as she bites down on his shoulders, quaking beneath him, his name on her tongue, blood against her teeth as she tastes him, feels him, cold and heat and so much more, and then a focal narrowing, narrowing, pleasure, pin point.

Gods.

Falling.

Magic swirling.

Swirling, swirling, swirling.

Until it can't go any farther.

Then.

Quieting, slowly.

A moment. Bodies intertwined, breathing in, out, together.

Then coldness.

Draco is the first to move, slowly sliding out of her and onto the bed next to her, moving upwards so his head is on a pillow and then reaching for her, pulling her, pliant, easy, into his arms, a curly head coming to rest on his chest.

A moment.

The sound of breath slowly regaining normalcy, the beat of blood, slowing, slowing, and then the rustle of a blanket, pulled up around them with a flick of a wrist.

The darkening of the night.

No words.

The slow fall of snow outside a window.

Silence.

A fire in the fireplace.

Passing of time. Not long. Long enough.

Her breath evening, slowing, flicker of eyelashes against his chest.

A sigh, her body growing heavy, warm, against him.

Draco watches her, the light just barely highlighting her face, along her jaw line, across her cheekbones, dark eyelashes against pale skin. A curl, resting against her cheek and the slow rise and fall of her chest against his.

Changes. Yes. But slowly.

Slowly.

Not yet.

He gently untangles himself from her, slipping from the blanket, shivering, just slightly, as he tucks the folds around her body, standing, staring, for just a moment, a mere breath, the blink of an eye, a finger, softly, barely there, touching the curl and moving it away from her cheek, gently.

Something tightening in his chest, pulling, crying even as he turns away.

A flick of a wrist. Fire leaping in the fire place, clothes quickly replaced.

And the quiet click of a door closing behind his retreating figure.


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione wakes to the sound of a fire crackling in the otherwise silent room.

Alone.

She knows it immediately.

Opening her eyes she looks at the leaping flames in the fireplace, the play of colour on the light coming from the windows across the room.

A grey light.

Grey.

Appropriate, strangely appropriate.

She doesn't move, hoping that by not moving she can stop the thoughts, hurtling, barrelling, towards her, scary, large, too much.

But they come with a soft sigh, whispering through the curls that fall across her face.

She understands.

No longer young, no longer the girl who went downstairs that grey morning so long ago. No longer the girl who sat next to Ron even as she watched Draco—for he was Draco then, suddenly—walk down after her, sit across from them, long fingers curling around a teacup.

No longer acceptance. Of death. Of life. Of one stolen night.

Brash, unlike her, yes, but stolen, a precious something given before she, and he, had thought they would die.

Now?

Hermione doesn't know.

Guilt?

Perhaps.

Shame?

No. No longer young. An action coming the last several weeks, the last several years.

Ten years.

Inevitable?

She doesn't like to think so, even though she feels the word, sees it as it floats through her mind, she notices, recognises, the tell signs of a burning in her chest, of the slow and distant throb at the base of her spine. Distant, of course, but there all the same.

Almost as if it is waiting.

For more.

And it is this thought, more than anything, that allows her to move finally, curling a hand around the softness of the blanket and pulling it closer to her body before shoving it off.

The cold.

Always the cold.

Hitting her with a force of a winter's morning, skin exposed to the chill, skin tightening across bones, muscles, tightening.

She aches.

And not all of it is from the cold.

Sitting upright, morning light on her pale skin, translucent, frigid, staring at the leap of flame that is doing little to warm her.

She doesn't know where she is.

They'd Side-Along-Apparated the night before, Draco pulling her towards him, wrapping the cloak around them. At the time, all she could think was she knew this scent, his scent, surrounding her, and she'd leaned into it, warmth from the freezing night air, heat, wrapping around her.

Now she pulls the blanket around her shoulders. She smells him. Just a taste. Barely, fingers clenching the fabric and bringing it up to her nose, standing up and walking to the room's single window.

The coast. Somewhere. Absent of people.

Alone.

Grey morning, grey sky, grey ocean.

Guilt.

She remembers it like an echo, like someone yelling far off in the distant.

But there is something else too.

Anger?

Had she really expected him to be here? Had she expected him to be by her side, white hair falling over his sleeping face?

A part of her had thought it. If only a moment. A mere moment.

Wished it?

Perhaps.

Though she doesn't want to believe she had. Doesn't want to believe he has that kind of power over her.

Power?

Anger at herself then. But far off, distant, barely there, just like everything else. Leaving, a memory, or, more like a shadow of something.

Distinct.

Shadowed.

Grey and darkness marking the one thing that should be light and sun.

Brilliant sun.

But nothing is brilliant between them. Nothing has ever shined.

Everything.

Darkness.

Shadows.

Grey.

Like the day spread out before her.

She pulls the blanket closer to her. The scent is fading and something in her whimpers at the slowly weakening recognisation of him. The slow absence.

The feel of his fingers on her skin, whispering, scathing, hot and cold, his lips along her jaw line, on the pulse at her throat, the feel of him moving within her.

Memories.

Something like amusement flickering across Hermione's face, pale cheeks pinking in memory and in comparison, because how can she not. He is different, she is different, ten years and only one winter's night is not enough to remember the reality.

The same. But different.

Broader shoulders, more muscled, rigid torso, the slight, ever so slight stubble along his cheek, hands a little more calloused, but just a small amount, along the tips and areas where a knife handle probably cradles while he cuts potion ingredients.

Different. But the same.

The feel of his hair under her fingers, the scent of him, spicy, expensive, cold almost, and the taste, the slight taste of his skin under her tongue.

Warmth pools in her womb, between her legs, centre tightening, tightening.

Desire. Yes. Definitely desire, attraction, still attraction, and the compulsion causing havoc, causing confusion, causing all rational thought, logical thought, to fall away, leaving just her need, an itch between her shoulder blades, even as the cold wraps around her spine once more.

Stroking.

Making her shiver as she stares out the window.

_What is this? What are we?_

Questions. Questions she never asked before, but ones, perhaps, maybe, she should have.

She questioned her decision in the garden, the night before Ron's funeral, two days after she and Draco had first found, what? Comfort? Peace? All those things, or none of them. She isn't sure anymore.

Sex. Yes. There is that.

There was that. The clinical, logical words; they, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, had sex in Draco Malfoy's room at the Burrow the night before the final battle between the Light and the Dark, the night before Ron Weasley died, two days before Ron Weasley's funeral.

Memory. Weaving in and out of her.

A palm resting on the coldness of the window's glass.

Guilt now. Then. From the day that she turned and saw Ron, saw Draco, and her Patronus shot out, the Otter, vengeful, stopping the Dementor. Yes, stopping the Dementor, but not the curse.

Guilt.

Coldness. Shivering up her spine.

_So, what now?_

Questions. A part of her wanting to be angry with him, for leaving her, for the night itself, for so much. For being the arrogant Slytherin, the Malfoy prince, the opposite, the one time enemy, the one time friend, the brief (ever so brief) lover, the enigma.

For being him and she being her.

In the end. There is that.

Because it's always what it comes down to. She is who she is. And he is who he is.

The thought, the simplicity of it, circling her brain. Circling, circling.

Palm against the cold glass. Anchoring.

Because really, it is not that simple. And it never has been. And perhaps the decision she made that night before Ron's funeral was not because of what happened in the final battle, but because in the end, the very end…

She is who she is. And he is who is.

And there is nothing good, wholesome, or light about them together.

Hermione takes her hand away from the glass and curls the fingers towards her palm, bringing the fist up to her chest, pulling the blanket tighter around her form. It's soft but no longer warm and her naked body shivers underneath its folds.

Grey sea below. Crashing.

A moment.

And then she is moving, grabbing her black cloak, dropping the blanket and pulling the cloak around her form, opening the bedroom door to a dim hallway, walking down the hallway to a small kitchen, opening the door to the kitchen and stepping out in the wind.

Into the cold.

The sea crashing on the rocks brilliant in the morning silence.

Brilliant.

She walks towards the grey water. One step, two steps, black cloak swirling about her bare legs, her bare feet, registering none of it as her walk turns faster, into a jog, and then a run, and she runs, her feet hitting the cold cutting grass, brown in the winter's assault, toes curling into the rocks as she hits the cliffs, sliding against the wet stone.

Dimly she realizes the tears on her face.

Dimly she realizes the sky has started to mist down upon her.

Coming to the water, the shore, the rocks, a small beach, cold, so very cold, aching up through her toes, up through her ankles and in the solitude, in the absence of all but the sky above her head, the sea spread out before her and the rocks at her back, she lets the cloak fall.

One step.

Another step.

Water curling about her toes, curling about them, biting in its icy tendrils, curling, curling.

Another step, the water, above her feet, her hands at her sides, mist falling about her shoulders, in her hair, curls falling down a bare backside.

Another step.

Frigid. Wind whipping around her, through her, cold, freezing, frigid, ice, grey shadows.

Another step.

Water, swirling, swirling, about her, feet numbing even as she walks, another step, and another, the water about her knees, hands at her sides and it cleanses and something breaks loose, breaks in a brilliant shadow of darkness, blackness and redness, blood and night.

Always. Always.

Night.

And she walks another step, the water crashing against her, numbing her, hands hitting the water as it touches her, swirling about her, so cold, so cold, so very cold.

Cleaning.

The sky opens above her and she looks upwards, the rain drops catching at her eyelashes, on her cheeks, the lips swollen still, still after so many hours, and the ache, deep in her chest, flaring with its precision of white heat.

A heat that burns in its coldness.

Much like the water swirling about her hips, much like the wind cutting across her skin, across her torso, breasts, arms, up her necks, caressing, yes, but a blade, so cold, so final.

One more step.

And the tears, the drops of moisture from above her head, from her own eyes, they fall down her face, pooling at her chin and then drop. Drop. Drop.

And join the sea.

Falling against her.

And only when she can no longer feel her toes, her feet, her ankles, her legs and her body throbs with the numbness, only then, only then does she drop her head, curls heavy with moisture falling about her face, and only then do the tears stop.

Only then.

Numbness.

Cleanliness.

Turning and walking back to the shore, back to the sand, picking up the black cloak where she left it and absently throwing it over her shoulder.

Only then.

Walking slowly back to the small house on the cliffs, feet numb, stumbling, chilled, shivering now. Yes. Now she is shivering.

Only then.

The rain coming harder. Harder. No longer a mist but blanketing her.

Ice in the form of moisture falling about her as if from a waterfall.

She opens the door to the small house, closing it quietly behind her, walking through the empty kitchen, down the hallway to the room, the room with the fire leaping in the fireplace, to the smell of them, still lingering, intertwining with the smell of rain, of salt, of sea wind.

Intertwining.

And she stands dripping.

For a moment.

Shivering.

For a moment.

And as the numbness fades away and feeling takes place the pain is gradual, an echo, a whisper, and then there, along her feet, legs, up her arms.

A focus.

And she drops her cloak again, this time to the wood floors, putting on her clothes with shaking fingers, shivering into the layers of robes before grabbing her cloak once more, not looking around, not looking out the window, not looking at the flames in the fireplace or the bed with two pillows still indented with two heads.

Does not look.

Closes her eyes.

Apparates to Hogwarts.

And only when she is once more in front of the gates of her school, only then does the shivering stop, not because she is warm but because the pain has subsided and numbness has moved in.

Once again.

So similar to the memory. Yet so different.

An ache somewhere at the base of her spine.

A pain low and deep, curling about her person, stroking even as it slices.

Pain.

Numbness.

Coexisting.

Hermione pushes open the gates of Hogwarts and walks with a quiet step towards the side of the castle, to the side door that will lead her to a hallway unknown by many but one that will take her to her quarters.

Walking.

One foot.

Sky overhead slowly starting to warm with the sun of a winter's day.

Sun. In place of the rain.

And for some reason that hurts her more than anything else.

It is so incredibly inappropriate.

A slap.

From the gods.

But there is numbness and she pushes open the door of the castle, leading into the hallway, barely noticing the portraits looking upon her white face, dark burning eyes, observing the wet curls about her head, plastered against her face, the sodden cloak about her shoulders or the visible shaking that occurs with every step.

Her quarters.

A destination.

Classes.

In two hours.

Breakfast in the Great Hall before that.

Simplicity in the everyday normalcy.

She comes to her quarters, staring at the door for a moment.

Just a moment.

Decisions. Always decisions.

Simplicity? Chaos?

Choices.

Some things change. Some things never do.

Decisions.

Dismantling the wards and opening the door.

The heavy wood closes slowly on her form.

Closing with a quiet click, echoing in the empty hallway.


	24. Chapter 24

Draco stands in the door of the kitchen and watches Severus prepare the tea.

"You have could have told me," he says quietly.

Severus does not look up. "I could have. And if I had, what would you have done?"

"Killed him." The answer is immediate.

"And that is why I did not tell you."

A moment of silence. Severus finishes with the tea and then seats himself at the worn oak table, long fingers cradling the delicate porcelain.

"He deserved - deserves - to die."

Severus looks on the man standing in the doorway. He notices that, as always, his dress is immaculate, his hair perfect. There is elegance about his person, despite the topic of their conversation, ease in the way he stands against the doorway.

He wonders at it even as he answers his Godson. "He did, perhaps, but he was instrumental in the defeat of Voldemort. His idea, Draco, is the one that allowed Mr. Potter to defeat the Dark Lord."

Draco does not move from the doorway, leaning against it, the feel of the rough wood under his shoulder. The cold of the winter is at his back, the heat of the kitchen on the front.

"That one act is enough to excuse all of what he did before it? As you said, Severus, my father first and foremost was out to save his skin. How is that honourable? How does that excuse him from the deaths of so many?"

Severus sighs suddenly, placing the cup on the table and then bringing his hand up to his nose, rubbing slightly there. A tired man with too many years shrouding his shoulders, too many things he has done, seen.

Draco sees it and though he was angry at his Godfather, horribly angry, to not be told about his father, to have something of such significance hidden away from him, in the face of the man himself, head bowed, dark hair falling around his face, the anger fades.

Replaced by his own kind of tiredness. A weight. Down low, heavy, weighing himself down.

Draco moves from the doorway and with a silent step crosses the room, sitting gracefully in the chair opposite the older man.

"It was Dumbledore." Draco says. A question more than a statement.

Severus looks up sharply.

Draco continues. "A second chance of sorts. That is why you did not kill my father, why you did not allow me the knowledge, because something in the end made you believe he was truly sorry for what he had done in his life."

Severus' black eyes are intent on the man across from him, meeting the steel grey and holding them.

"Perceptive." Severus finally says.

Draco inclines his head just slightly. "Perhaps. But I have to wonder what it was that made you believe he was sorry for the life he led, for his killing." Draco pauses, feeling the familiar lump rising, hardening in his throat, even after so many years, remembering the look on his mother's face as he killed her with his father's wand.

A memory.

Haunting him still.

Severus looks back down at his tea. "I am not entirely sure he was sorry Draco. Not entirely. He came to me a month before the final battle, two days before I presented the book to you and Miss Granger. It was the night that we attacked King's Cross Station, if you remember it."

Pauses.

Draco remembers with clarity. The night, the desperate struggle to get all Muggles out of the Station, away from the chaos that was about to happen, clearing them out before the Death Eaters could arrive. Pleading with people who didn't understand, who just didn't understand because they did not realize the true nature of the threat.

Many had died that night.

Most of the Muggles.

And the memory still leaves a taste in his mouth of bitter failure.

Another memory.

Haunting.

Severus breaks into his thoughts. "Your father came to me afterwards, when I was preparing to leave the Station to go back to my residence at the time. He had been injured, quite severely actually, by Lupin I believe and his cloak had been heavy with his own blood. He asked me if I was working with the Order and if I was would I take him into their custody."

Draco felt the surprise creep over his features. "He asked you to take him, that night?"

Severus nods. "Yes. However, I did not trust him, for obvious reasons. He gave me the book several days later. All he told me was that I would find the information within the pages helpful in my cause. He added that if I was not working for the Order and if I was still true to Voldemort that the next time I would see him would be dead at the Dark Lord's feet. Such words said very flippantly. I took the book, preparing an excuse for Voldemort in case it was trick."

Draco thinks about what Severus says, rolling about his mind. "You still did not trust him?"

Severus shakes his head. "Of course not. I will never trust Lucius Malfoy. Initially I did not trust what was in the book, though I went over everything within it; besides the obvious, there was nothing that was malevolent."

Draco's control is precise, but the memory of a certain witch, the smell of her still within his mind, too new, and he can't help the flicker of anger that crosses his features.

Severus catches it.

"Yes. Besides the obvious, which did include the death of Miss Granger."

Draco nods once. Because he did understand at the time, though the knowledge had torn at him even then. But he had understood the greater picture.

Always the greater picture.

He too had been part of that greater picture. A pawn.

The greater picture.

Always.

It was something he and Hermione both had understood and when they had completed the binding, when they had sat in front of the fire, a promise made between them, unspoken, a knowledge, that if one died, so would the other.

An understanding but without knowledge.

A feeling. More than anything else.

Draco now wonders how accurate that feeling actually was.

But Severus is speaking again.

"He came to me one final time," he says. "You and Miss Granger had already started to work out the spell, and indeed it appeared as if it was the only way Mr. Potter would be successful in his endeavour; not only to destroy the horcrux of his scar, but also to remain composed, real enough to complete his task. I did not tell this to Lucius, but he knew some of it already, it was after all, the reason he gave me the book in the first place. He broke down that night, Draco. I have never seen your father break down, even in Azkaban, even when faced with Dementors, I have never seen your father break. But he did that night. And though I did not trust him, though I did not pardon him on that night, after it was done and the smoke had cleared, I thought it only fair, if for nothing else but to repay a gift given to me so many years before."

A pause.

"As you so accurately stated earlier," Severus finishes.

Severus waits, watching Draco process the information, the expressionless face distant and he wonders, not for the first time, at the control Draco has learned, wonders at it and fears for him because of it. The ex-professor understands, perhaps better than anyone else, the loneliness that comes with such control, with such constraints put on the very person.

A lonely life indeed.

And he understands it. Understands it intimately.

The control of one who knows too much, whose very person is subject to darkness. Who feels it as an ever-tantalizing presence of power.

Control.

Draco finally refocuses on the older man. His eyes are a hard steel grey though his face is without tension and he leans back in his chair, slouching, as if without a care.

"I will still kill him if I meet him again."

The words. Cold. Precise.

Severus knows the younger man is not lying.

Draco continues. "However, I need information, information I believe he has."

This is not what Severus expected and he leans slightly back in his own chair. Hand curling around the teacup once more. "Indeed. And what would that be?"

"Information regarding the original form of the spell Hermione and I cast."

Draco sees the slow smile, slight, ever so slight, around the other man's stern features.

"I see."

Draco feels a rush of irritation but quickly represses it. "I believe my father, if he does not have a book on the original spell, knows information regarding it."

Severus leans forward. "Actually, he does not."

One eyebrow on aristocratic features rises slightly. "No?"

"Your father knows very little of the original spell. In fact, when I told him about the…side effect, if you will, of the spell between you and Miss Granger he was very much intrigued."

A storm cloud, over what were once blank features. A tightening of a fist.

"What did he say?" The four words chilling in their stillness.

Severus finds the reaction very interesting if not incredibly amusing and he wonders if the boy even realizes his reaction.

"He says the spell was a creation to bind Muggle-born to the more powerful pure-blood, and that through the spell the magic of the Muggle-born is eventually stripped away, transferring it to the pure-blood."

Draco knows all of this already and he resists the urge to make a gesture with his hand, keeping it steady and still in his lap.

"The compulsion, he figured, was a side effect of it."

Draco nods. "I've always thought as much."

"However, that does not explain the presence of the blood stone."

"Blood magic, a binding spell." Draco answers and it is Severus that is taken back this time.

Draco continues. "The original spell was a binding spell, some kind of blood magic that bound, to protect, as far as I can find."

Severus brings a finger up to his lips and taps them absently. "Very interesting. Where did you find that information?"

"The Malfoy Library. An obscure text, leading me to the old house of our ancestors on the North Shore."

Severus nods. "Where you found my wards."

"And my father's."

Silence between them.

Then Severus stands. "You did not find anything else?" He asks, even as he clears the tea things in front of him with a twitch of his wrist.

Draco shakes his head. "I am hoping you will be able to help."

Severus stills, a tall figure, drinking in the light of the kitchen lamps, darkness swirling about his person.

A terrifying figure, even in the time of peace.

Though Draco, so long used to his Godfather, does not notice.

"I will. There are references at that place, several, though I have not looked upon them and I must wonder if my dear friend, your father, has held something back."

Severus looks down at the still seated Draco. "Do you and Miss Granger still plan on recreating the spell?"

The question startles Draco, slightly, though he controls the reaction.

"I am not entirely sure. We have not been able to speak over the implications since I have discovered the information."

Severus nods, a distant look on his face as he stares at the night moon shining outside the kitchen windows. "This complicates things."

Draco agrees. Though the words have a different connotation to him.

Memories. Rising up.

A stirring in his trousers.

That he decidedly ignores.

Severus looks again down at Draco. "I will see what I can find. However, I suggest you and Miss Granger continue on your course of study."

Draco smirks slightly at the older man's words, precedent of words spoken to him before, many years before, in a classroom, as a young child, before he knew what he knows now.

So long ago.

Severus does not wait for a reply, swirling away in an image of darkness and soon the kitchen is silent, Draco alone at the table.

Staring at the wooden table top.

Thinking. But for a moment.

Decisions tinged with the inevitable.

He does not stay there long, rising and leaving the kitchen, letting himself out to the alley behind the house and, without closing his eyes, Disapparates to Hogwarts.

It's been two days.

He stands in front of the gates of his old school and looks at the dark shadowed structure rising massively in the sky.

He has avoided her. That honest part of him knows it even as the other part of him, the Slytherin, does not want to.

How to understand what happened two nights prior?

Lost.

And the knowledge of such a simple thing terrifies him as very little else has in a very long time.

Because he had not meant for the dinner to lead to that, not, at least, on a conscious level, though he can't help but wonder at the subconscious level.

An action that he took. On his own. In control, even if he had not realized it.

So many times in his life, so very many times, he's been completely out of control of his life, out of control of the decisions, the actions, out of control of everything.

A puppet, complete with puppet strings and a puppeteer.

After the war though, after walking away from her on that cloudy cold day, he'd promised himself never to play the puppet, never to have his life out of his control ever again.

Now.

Now.

Slipping. He can feel it, slowly, as if silk between his fingers, catching at the roughness of the tips, yes, slowing the descent, yes, but still slipping downward.

Because of a witch.

Because of a compulsion that flares in his chest even as he walks on Hogwarts property. The knowledge that she is here, that she is close, dark and shadowed about his spine, curling upwards from the crunch of gravel under his feet.

A knowledge.

Ever so insistent since two days ago when he'd left her in his house along the Northern Sea.

The smell, the taste, the feel of her, echoing behind his control, echoing, and slowly, slowly, shredding the control away.

He has not seen her because on same base level he understands that what control he has will disappear with the whisper of her voice.

As if smoke.

And nothing more.

So he avoided her because in the end the memory of her coming to him after the funeral, big brown eyes looking as if the world was lost, and the feeling he had at that point, the overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around her, to cradle her, protect her from the world, had split and been beaten to near death by her words.

Dismissing.

And he will not have her dismiss him again.

The knowledge he had gained when he had entered her mind. The knowledge of her fear of him, of what she feels for him, for the guilt underlying, the panic, and the desire, yes that too, but always, always, the image of a red-headed boy with freckles, brilliant in his good nature.

Bloody good nature. So very different then him. So incredibly different.

Dismissing him. She had once.

So he had left.

Even as the desire to stay had almost overwhelmed him.

Coming to the stairs leading up to the entrance Draco pauses for a moment, looking upwards at the moon overhead. Cold, the same as the one overhead in Muggle London, but different as well. More distant.

Colder.

Air shivering about him even as he pulls his cloak around his form.

He continues up the stairs, slipping inside and moving in the direction of his rooms, turning down a partially lit hallway and knowing, instantly, instantly, that she is there, the form of her, slight in her own black cloak, walking towards him.

He stops.

Watching.

Waiting.

One step. Then another. Looking up.

Eyes meeting in the shadows, expressions lost in the dim light.

A flare of pain in his chest, a pressure at his spine.

Losing control.

Slowly.

Even as he walks towards her. Even as she stands still looking at him. Even as he stops in front of her, looking down on her.

Staring at her face, memorizing her face, the lines, the details, the upturned nose, the smattering of freckles, the slightly pouted lower lip, the brilliant eyes looking up at him in fear, in desire, heat, something else, underlying something else.

"You left." She speaks before he can. Two words, echoing in the hallway.

Two words.

He answers.

"I did."

One word.

"Why?"

And he catches his breath when she tilts her head, just slightly, just ever so slightly, catches and holds his breath because everything is there, staring at him.

And before he can answer, a hand, a small delicate hand with fingers like frozen ice, places itself against his lips and the burning in his chest flares into an inferno at her touch, such a simple touch.

Burning.

Swirling about him.

Her words.

"No. I don't want to know."

Spoken quietly.

So quietly.

Dousing the flames.

And in their place coldness.

_Dismissal._

The word wrapping around and around in his brain.

She takes her hand away from his lips.

Steps back.

One step.

Another.

And then turns. Disappearing in the shadows.

_Dismissal._

Ringing about his brain.

Control. Reasserting itself.

And he turns. A rustle of cloak.

Leaves.

Away from her and the word sighing within his mind.


	25. Chapter 25

Draco stops. Mid-step. Stops. Turns, looks into the shadows were the witch had disappeared.

Thought.

For a moment.

Just a moment.

A smile, horrid, creeping up his features. No longer the broken boy walking away. No longer unsure, lost.

Found.

Ten years.

Slytherin prince, Malfoy Heir.

Recreated.

He starts after her. Silent step, swirling of air about his black cloak, the moon lighting his white hair, elegant white hands, easy at his side.

Easy. Strolling with the assurance of one who has had everything taken away from him only to regain it all back. Through work. Blood. Sweat.

Confidence.

And anger. Lacing it, underlying it, twirling with it, weaving in and out. Crimson red, swirling with the black.

Dismissal, not even a word in his vocabulary, one that he has purposefully tore out, brutally, burning it.

He'd forgotten. Again.

Two days.

But seeing her, seeing the easy way she yet again dismissed him, the easy way she controlled him.

No. That will not do.

Compulsion, magic, stroking about his person and even without calling on it, without reaching out with his senses he can feel her, the mere touch of her magic on his own.

Something throbs, low deep in his belly. Throbs and heats.

He comes around a corner and stops. Mid-step, seeing her stand against the shadow of the moonlight, against the shadow of the night, back turned towards him, towards a window overlooking the grounds.

A slight witch with magic coloured like his own swirling about her.

Quick steps until he is right behind her, until his hands descend on her cloaked arms. Bracing.

A sigh, barely discernable, echoing in the silence of the hallway, breath fogging the window in front of her, just slightly, just enough.

The smell of lavender, of autumn, the smell of the night twirling about them as he leans close to her, not touching, nothing touching but his hands on her clad shoulders, but leaning in enough so he can almost feel the curls of her hair against his face.

Just enough.

"Would you like to know why I left?" He asks, his voice low, distinct, a breath along the top of her head. He feels her shiver under his hands and he smiles, slow, lifting of his lips, glinting of his teeth.

The darkness pooling, hardening, tight against his trousers.

Leaning just slightly more, feeling her heat, her magic, even as he knows she can feel his, twisting about them.

A whisper, "Because I think you do, I think you can't help but wonder even if you deny yourself the question." The tightening of his hands, almost unconscious on her arms, the slight intake of her breath, the shiver that moves through her body as he leans down so his mouth is next to her ear, right next to it, so close that if he turned his head he could lick the lobe there, the delicate pink skin.

He keeps his head straight. Eyes focused on the dark night outside the window before them. Reminding, anchoring himself by the slightly rough nature of her cloak under his hand even as he feels the control slipping, faster, faster.

A part of him, albeit a distant part of him, warning, a dark voice telling him that his control is essential, that to lose control is to lose so much more.

But he ignores the voice, ignores it for the more immediate concerns; the witch trembling in front of him, trembling because of him, his words, of the magic circling about them.

Trembling because of him.

He will not be dismissed.

As if the thought is a catalyst for something else, he drops his head, capturing the curve of her neck, to her shoulder, placing his lips there, just at the juncture of her cloak, and when she sighs again, when she sways back towards him, something growls deep in his magic, growls and rears up in possessiveness.

He will not be dismissed.

He bites down on the skin, flooding his mouth with the taste of her skin, with the sudden scent of her arousal. His hands moving from her upper arms, moving over the cloak, rough fabric under his hands, moving down her arms, to her wrists, bare and frigid in the coldness.

He grasps them, his hands easily circling their expanse.

Hermione moans into him, leaning back towards him, but he holds her rigid by the wrists, holds her away from his body.

Barely moving his lips, barely touching the skin.

Whispering.

"No, my dear, for you see I have not told you my reasons. I know you want the answer to your question; you have not changed so much, after all." He pauses, letting his lips descend on her skin once more. Tasting her, warm smoothness under his lips, under his tongue and the slight graze of his teeth.

Then.

"Ever the know-it-all Gryffindor," whispered against her skin, blowing along the wetness he leaves there.

She shivers again.

He smiles, and as if he can read her mind, as if the knowledge comes unbidden, tickling about his conscious, he leans just a small amount, just enough so his chest just barely touches her back.

"Hermione." He breathes her name into her ear.

She whimpers.

He pulls away.

Smile growing, darkness swirling, blood swirling, and he holds her rigid, away from him, so close though, so very close. His body screams at him, to close the distance, to get on with it, to take the witch before him, bend her over against the glass, to make her his, mark her.

Base instinct.

Primitive.

He holds it in check, harsh and absolute check.

Because there are other things to consider. Other things that are more prevalent.

An answer to her question being the first.

And perhaps the last.

"So tell me, Granger, why do you believe I left you lying naked on my bed?"

The use of her surname does not go unnoticed by either of them.

He can feel her magic, pulling towards her, bracing, can feel it even if he cannot see it in the darkness. He feels her will, pulling it towards her, gathering it.

It causes the heat in his body, the desire, the need, the spark to flame, and for a moment, less than a breath, his control wavers and his hands strengthen about her wrists, his body leaning towards her.

Stopping.

Almost touching.

Almost.

But not.

And then her voice, quiet, barely there, but controlled, without a tremor.

The words.

"Because you are Draco Malfoy and I am Hermione Granger."

The words.

A tightening in his gut. A low guttered growl rising up in his throat, rising, purging, fury, anger, murder.

Clamped down.

Hard.

Control. Of his own.

He purposefully relaxes his hands about her wrists. He purposefully lets go of the skin there, his hands moving once more up her cloaked arms, up to her shoulders, resting them there, long white fingers against the blackness of the fabric.

He feels the tension coming off her in waves, feels her power gathering, her magic gathering, preparing herself for whatever his reaction might be to her words. Sensing, if not knowing for sure, that there is danger standing behind her, so close, so very close.

But Draco has control, always, always control, his body winding itself up with it, tense with it. Precious, precious control.

"Perhaps." He says finally when the silence is too much and he knows she is about to break, knows she is about to turn to confront him.

Feels her still once more.

The word echoing off the stone walls. The stone floors. The glass, cold in front of them.

To feel that coldness, under his palm.

To counteract the heat moving about his person, about her.

Instead, leaning in, to smell her hair, to let it tickle his nose, his face, to feel the strands against his chin, moving his hands down her arms once more but instead of stopping at the wrists, instead of stopping at the first contact of skin, he continues, lacing his fingers with hers.

A tension.

Radiating off of her.

Readiness.

Fear.

Even as her delicate hands wrap in his own almost with thought.

Trust.

It amuses Draco to no end.

At the same time it cries out to him in soft whimpering breaths.

He speaks to the top of her head. "But that is too simple. Too simple. You and I. Yes, but so much more. A past, a future. It's what I see in your mind."

A coldness. Wafting across his skin as she registers his words.

Delicate fingers tightening, tightening in his own.

Continuing.

"I see desire. I see heat, I see you wanting me to lay you down on a sheet of green silk and kiss you, starting at your ankle, making my way up with tongue and lips, up your calf, your knee, up your silky thigh, until I reach your centre, so wet already, aren't you Granger, so very very wet for me, and what then, I kiss you, my tongue delving into you even as my finger play, moving, swirling."

A whimper.

Fingers clenching at the image.

He can almost see the colour of her arousal circling them in magic.

Control.

Still. To not take her against the window.

Control.

Leaning down, breath against her ear, against her neck, against the point that he had kissed just moments before.

"But that is not all, not all I see. Because as I see this playing in your head I also see fear, and panic, ah yes, panic." He pauses, lips gliding just a moment, a brief moment, against the delicate skin of her ear. Voice hot, vibrating. "Don't get my wrong, my pet, those thoughts, they do things to me, make me harder than ever before, your desire and your fear, a heady combination those are and it makes me want to do nothing more than bend you over, right here, in the middle of this hallway and thrust myself into you."

A pause. A whisper. Against her ear.

"I ache for it."

And as if to prove a point, he brings one of their linked hands around and places it against the front of his trousers, the friction of fabric against his aching member eliciting a moan even as she gasps at the contact.

His voice slightly horse, effort. Control. "Do you see, my little Muggle, can you feel what you do to me, seeing what's in your mind, your desire, you wanting me, but also your panic knowing you shouldn't, knowing it is wrong. Can you sense how I want to kneel you over, press into you, that wonderful warmth, and move inside you. Filling you." Pressing her hand firmer against him, the fabric moving against him in agonizing torture, even as his voice drops lower, blacker, harder, "How I want to fuck you."

"Gods." Her voice. Heavy in the darkness, whispering.

But he is not done. Not nearly. And he moves her hand away from his trousers, smiling almost cruelly at her whimper of protest as he does so, leaning backwards now, away from her, taking his heat.

But not dropping her hands, keeping them locked together. The only contact.

"But do you know what else I see?" And in the question murder. In the question blood.

She hears it if the tightening of her body is any indication. But he knows she is dazed, he knows she is drugged by what is taking place, by his thumb stroking the inside of her palm.

And something malicious, something echoing of the days of old, something dark and putrid sighs through Draco's mouth.

Words whispered.

"I see Weasley."

The cold. Rushing down on him. Her hands, fingers, tightening, tightening, until they are wretched from him. Swirling of black cloak, of curls, face white in fury.

Step back.

A flick of his wrist and her drawn wand is instantly in his hand.

Hermione shakes and even without the compulsion between them, even without the bond, he could have seen her magic swirling about her.

Red.

Brilliant in its anger.

Frigid in its righteous.

"How dare you?" Her voice hisses even as he barely makes out the light sparking in her eyes.

He twirls her wand between his fingers. Control. Nonchalance, though he is tense, every muscle ready, preparing for whatever she will throw his way.

But the only thing that comes his way are three words. Repeated.

"How dare you?"

Draco does not smile as he holds her wand confidently in his fingers, moving it back and forth.

He stares at her. Contemplating her.

She takes a step towards him, her face a picture of fury.

And he does not back away.

"You have no right to say his name. You, who are nothing, you have no right to even say his name."

Anger. Fury. Deeply buried.

His control. Absolute.

"Perhaps." He answers her. His answer, the same as before. "But it is still the answer to your question."

He sees her pause, thoughts catching up with his words, understanding only indicated by the slight widening of her eyes.

Draco does not move, does not move but it is as if he does, as if he is pressing his body against her, the light in his eyes brilliant even in the dark. He knows. He can feel it, his own magic swirling about him.

A throb. At the base of his spine, at the point under his chin, in his trousers.

"You see, Granger, he is always there, always between us, and I was dismissed out of your life once, dismissed because of your honour and your love for that git, and I will not be treated so again."

Fury, wrapping around her once more, at his speech, at her own guilt, he doesn't know, but he sees it, feels it.

"I did not dismiss you." Words, through gritted teeth. Eyes wide with anger, with fury, hands clenched at her side.

One eyebrow, rising towards white hair, highlighted by the moon.

"No? Well, pray, explain exactly what it was that happened."

There is fury in the words, sarcasm, yes, but fury and he does not try to hide it.

She hears it and takes a step back. Unconsciously, even though her body is still defiant in front of him.

Chin lifted.

It almost takes away his control.

But so much to lose.

And he holds tight onto it.

"What?" She says, and her voice is almost rigid in its own control. "What would you have had me done? The Muggle-born, the Mudblood, and the Malfoy Prince, together? Oh yes, that would have worked spectacularly."

He narrows his eyes and takes a step forward.

She does not move though she flinches.

His tone level. Silky. Dark. "Always hiding behind that, aren't you? More than I ever did, it appears. Hiding behind titles." A pause. A breath. "Opposites and all that, it didn't matter, still doesn't."

Her own eyes narrowing at the accusing tone of his voice. At the accusing tone of what he is not saying.

"It did." She says, that chin moving so slightly further into the air. "It does." She finishes.

Control. Slipping.

One step and suddenly he is against her, his body pressed against hers, heat, magic, wrapping around them and before he can think on it he is kissing her, smashing his mouth against hers. Brutal. Harsh. Anger. Fury. He pries her lips open with his teeth, tasting blood even as her hands fight against him, reaching up between them to push him.

Away.

And he catches her tongue, catches, holds it, plays with it, sucking into his mouth, and suddenly the hands that were meant to push him away are grasping at his cloak, grasping and holding on.

He swallows her moan even as his tongue, lips, attack, swirling against her teeth, delving, drinking.

Her taste.

He wretches his lips away, tasting her blood on his tongue, her lip swollen from his attack, pulse racing in her neck, but he sees none of this, not really, looking down into those big chocolate eyes, staring up at him in fear, yes, panic, certainly, but also with desire so hot it nearly seers him.

Taking his control almost entirely.

But not yet.

And he leans his forehead down to touch hers.

"And when were like this," he murmurs to her, his hands coming up and grasping at her waist, pulling up her shirt so the coldness of his fingers singes the smooth heat of her stomach. "When we're like this, do opposites matter, do you feel the opposite, the Malfoy Prince and the Mudblood?"

A gasp. At his words. At his fingers moving across her stomach.

Pressing his body into hers so she can feel his arousal, so she can feel what she does to him.

All the bloody time.

"What Granger?" He growls even as she moans into him, even as her hands grasp at his cloak, her head falling back to hit the glass behind her. "Does it feel like it matters, right now, does it?"

And he attacks her throat, lips, tongue, teeth, and he relishes the feel of her pulse under his tongue, the taste of her, the smell of her.

So sweet.

So Hermione.

And her hands are moving across his face, to his hair, grasping at the strands there, moaning something incoherent, his own hands moving across her skin, up to where lace covers her breasts, wrenching it out of the way, two fingers playing with the pebbled nipple there.

Continuing, mouth, down her throat, pausing at the top of her cloak, the hollow at the top of her chest, and then moving up, to the spot under her ear.

Whispering.

"You always make me hard, always, so fucking hard, so you can't tell me that there is not something right about this, about you, me." Nipping at her skin. Trailing kisses. He brings his hand down from her breast, down to the waist of her Muggle jeans, downwards, one finger moving under the fabric, down to the elastic of her knickers, downwards, tip barely touching the curls there.

Breath against her heated skin.

"And I can feel you, my pet; I can feel your heat, your wetness, ready for me, so fucking ready for me. Opposites maybe, but does that really matter when all you can think of is having me inside you, moving inside you, slowly."

His other hand moving away from her breast, down her side, to the buttons of her jeans, pushing them away with ease, and the feel of her, the heat of her, the magic surrounding her. It creates havoc in his mind.

Havoc.

Chaos.

Madness.

Because he is forgetting what it is he was supposed to be proving. He is forgetting everything, unable to focus on anything but the woman in front of him, head tilted back against the glass, eyes closed, curls about her face.

The smell of her, the heat from her.

And the way her face takes an unearthly glow when his fingers move across her swollen sex, the moan low in her chest, her hands grasping at his shoulders as she arches unknowingly backwards.

And his other hand reaches for his own trousers, to release himself, from the pressure, to do all it is he can think to do, right then, right at that moment, his entire focus on being inside his Hermione, his beautiful witch in front of him.

Then she opens her eyes, and he looks down, and their eyes meet. Brown. Silver. Amber in the shadows. The grey of a Northern Sea.

Meeting.

Control.

Without thought, without meaning too, a connection through their bonding, through their minds, through their magic.

Draco does not mean to but suddenly he is there, in her mind, swirling in the heat of her desire, in her lust, in the emotions of wanting him, desperately almost wanting him, but underneath that, underlining everything, always there, always bloody there, guilt.

And it's cold.

It's what douses him.

And before he can look away, before he can lose the contact, the guilt in her mind focuses, creates a face.

A bludgeon, in the gut.

Darkness. Hatred. Fury.

Murder.

Releasing her. His hands dropping to his side. Curling to fists.

One step away from her. Another step. Control. Control.

Seeing the fear run the desire from her face, running the passion away.

Seeing the incredible increase of her pulse at her neck.

Wanting to slit that neck with a knife.

Watch it bleed all over the floor.

Or take that knife to himself. To make it go away.

Dismissal. Guilt. Forgetting himself.

Control.

Seeing, but not seeing the witch in front of him with the swollen lips, the mussed hair, shirt hanging out of pants unbuttoned, cloak fallen to the floor, her wand where he had dropped it though he doesn't remember.

Fury.

Her eyes wide in fear. Her body trembling in unreleased desire, in recognition of his magic swirling malevolently between them.

"But perhaps, Professor Granger," he says and his voice is flat. Cold. Distant. "You have been right all along and I was a fool to believe that this is, or has been, anymore than a tantalizing taboo. A warped desire for me to fuck a Mudblood and for you to fuck an enemy."

He bows. Mocking.

"My apologies." He sneers.

And turns, leaving before the image of his hands around her throat becomes reality.


	26. Chapter 26

Gathering herself. Head resting against the cold of the glass.

Calming.

Breathing in and out.

Calming.

Her magic swirling about her, comforting, her blood, slowing.

Hermione knows she should feel anger. She knows she should feel fury, hurt. She knows she should feel rage at the man who had just walked away.

Sadness.

It seeps into her, slowly, dripping, sliding about her person.

Sadness.

Because she knows what he saw.

Knows and wishes she didn't.

Because his words echo in her brain.

_Hiding._

Is she really? Hiding behind an explanation?

Hermione knows the answer to the question almost as soon as it floats through her mind.

Opening her eyes and glancing around.

It was sheer luck, sheer and utter luck that no one had passed them, no one had seen their interaction. That no portraits graced the walls around that particular alcove.

She doesn't know if she could answer the questions the Headmistress would ask if the situation had ended differently, if they'd been caught by a student or another Professor.

Hermione blushes at the thought of such a scenario.

Dismisses it.

The irony of it appropriate and one she does not ignore.

Gathering herself, pulling her cloak back around her shoulders, fingers numbly buttoning her pants, arranging her shirt.

She turns once more to look out the window in front of her.

Palm against the glass.

She'd felt him when he'd walked on the Hogwarts' property, a slow burn at the base of her spine. She'd gone to the window to see him, make out his shadow crossing the property. But there'd been nothing.

A presence. A feeling.

But she hadn't seen him even as her magic had throbbed at his presence.

Even now it throbs, low, in her belly, at the base of her spine, at the point in her chest.

Combining with unfilled sexual tension.

Still burning.

Hermione turns from the window. Determined to go back to her quarters, to start on the third-year essays but before she thinks, before thoughts can tell her otherwise, she is following the trace of his magic. Slow at first, and then quicker, almost frozen feet in trainers hitting the stone floor as she wraps her cloak closer about her person.

Closer yet.

A story.

She needs to tell him.

Because the guilt is something she wants to be rid of. Because she has never told another person. Because it will explain things. It will explain why she continues to hold Ron's face close to her, remembering him.

Because if she did not it would go against something innate, something she is.

Definition.

The good nature that still exists somewhere in the grey that shadows her person.

An explanation of why she turned away from him. And no, it was not because they were who they were, though it had added to her decision.

No, guilt.

Guilty of making a decision that had cost her young love's life, had caused the brilliance that was Ron Weasley to be snuffed, guttered out, in the instance of a green flash.

The desire to tell him almost as hot as the desire to have him was earlier.

The determination to set things right quickening her pace.

Rounding a corner and almost running straight into the upright form of the Headmistress.

Hermione steps back and immediately takes in the older woman's face, a face lined with worry, eyes almost glistening with what very much looks like tears, though in the near darkness it is hard to be sure.

"Hermione," Minerva says, voice thankful, relief evident. "You must come with me."

Alarm bells. Ringing. Tensing.

"What is it?" Hermione asks, even as she follows Minerva, now walking back the way she came.

"It is Lily."

Hermione stops in mid-step as if in a trance. "Lily Potter?"

"Yes." The clipped one word propelling her forward once more.

"What is it?" Hermione repeats. She is surprised to find calmness in her words even as panic and fear run about her mind in a display of chaos, chasing Draco out of her mind.

Too much chaos on this night.

She thinks it even as she continues to follow the Headmistress.

"They do not know. She is at St. Mungo's. Last night she started a fever, nothing unusual. Harry said it appeared as if was nothing more than the flu. This morning, however, she was delirious and by this afternoon she was having hallucinations and her magic…"

Minerva's voice trails off and she stops, turning to look at Hermione.

The younger witch stills at her side, almost running into the older woman.

"Yes?" Hermione finally prompts.

"It is uncontained, almost as if she is not able to control it."

Hermione catches her breath. Just slightly, just barely.

"What do you mean?"

Minerva looks stern, but it is a control, one Hermione has not seen in a long time.

The Headmistress is clearly worried. Clearly distressed.

"I am not sure. It is not harming anyone, does not actually appear to be affecting anything. But." Another pause and Hermione is shaken to see her former Head of House clearly shaken herself. "They believe it is harming her in some way."

"The grey magic?" Hermione asks, though she all ready knows the answers.

Minerva pauses again. "As far as we can tell," she says, quietly, almost gently.

Hermione stares at the older woman for a moment. Just a moment.

She nods once. Curtly.

"Then take me to her."

The relief is palpable on the Headmistress' features and she turns once more towards her office where they can Floo directly to the hospital.

It is not lost on Hermione that the hospital ward they go to is not a traditional ward but a ward dealing exclusively with patients effected by Dark Magic. A ward created during the War.

Something cringes, tightens in her stomach.

A quick pace, though Hermione slows when she sees the group standing outside one of the hospital rooms. Harry has his arm around Ginny, who is standing next to Molly and Arthur, and just to the side George. Waiting, the look on their faces showing the same kind of relief that was on Minerva's when they see her.

Hermione feels a strengthening of panic.

Because what if she can't help.

What if there is nothing for her to do?

What if she can't fix it?

A mediwitch comes out of one of the rooms. She is a plump woman with bright blue eyes who looks every bit as worried as the rest of them.

Hermione again feels something in her chest lurch, fall, stomach knotting.

"You can come in now; we are done with the testing," she says quietly to the group of people outside the door. The mediwitch put a hand out to Ginny and Harry. "Mr. and Mrs. Potter, if I could have a word with you."

Hermione catches Harry's look, the fear clearly written in his features and something distant, something like a waif of thought, floats through her mind. She remembers the same exact look when he'd found out about his role in the war against Voldemort. A pale faced eleven year old with all the world on his shoulders.

It wrenches at her, wrenches and tears and it is only with extreme control on her self and her emotions, a control she has learned since the war, that she does not go to Harry and wrap her arms around her.

That, after all, is Ginny's job now and Hermione would never assume it again.

_So many changes. So very many changes._

Even as she follows Molly into the room.

And stops dead at the magic circling around the younger girl.

A choked sound reaches her ears, even as her hand comes up to her mouth, realising the sound came from her.

Hermione sees the magic, sees it swirling about the young girl as she lays on the bed, eyes closed, dark eyelashes against pale cheeks.

The whirling of grey. It's the only way she can think to describe it.

But the grey is tinged. Tinged with something silver, something red, the normal magic that she always associates with lighter colours, yellows, oranges, pulsing, but twisting with the grey magic.

Intertwining.

Three steps take her to the child's side and Hermione places her hand against her forehead, wincing at the heat coming from it.

A movement at the door and Hermione turns her head to see Ginny and Harry walk in, hands tightly clasped.

All eyes turn toward them.

Harry swallows. Hermione sees it and a rush of guilt, of love, of understanding, so overwhelming she has to turn away.

To look on their daughter. Her Goddaughter. So young.

So very young.

Swirling with the magic she had created.

The magic that might be killing her.

Closing her eyes, even as she hears Harry start talking behind her.

"They can't get her fever down." He says. Echoing in the room.

Words. Deadpan.

Terrified.

Harry continues. "The magic," clearing his throat, "Her magic is getting in the way of all their efforts."

Hermione turns then, turns and stares, because the solution is so easy. So very easy, if that is the extent of the problem.

If the magic is the only reason the girl is sick.

"Are you sure that is what is hindering their progress?" She asks, and notices that Molly and George both wince at her harsh tones. But she has to be sure.

Has to be sure.

Harry catches her eyes, brilliant green eyes pained. Then a flicker of something as he sees the witch in front of him, sees the tilt of her chin and the almost possessed fire in her eyes. A flicker of hope.

A solution.

Hermione always has the answers.

"That is what they have determined." He says slowly.

Ginny must have seen the same thing in Hermione's face because she takes a step forward, though she does not let go of her husband's hand.

"Why, Hermione?" She asks, and her voice is little more then a small tone in the otherwise silent room.

Hermione looks away from Harry, to Ginny, and then to the little girl in the bed. She doesn't know what the effect of it will be on her, but she knows without a doubt what she can do about it.

"I can channel it." She says quietly. "The magic, I can channel it away from her."

A mutter and the rustle of fabric.

"Are you sure?" This time from Harry.

Hermione does not look to him, still staring. "Yes."

And then another voice.

"She did it while Ginny was having Fred," George says. "Lily was having trouble with the magical residue and it looked like Hermione took some of it away from her."

A gasp.

Molly.

"Then you can do this?" Harry.

Hermione does not look up to see the hope in Harry's eyes. She can hear it in his voice.

"Of course." She said.

Something stirring deep in her belly.

Fear.

But now is not the time. And she is a Gryffindor.

Hermione pulls her cloak off, laying it gently on the chair next to Lily.

"Contact Severus," she says over her shoulder. "He has a new fever reducer he and Draco have been working on." She knows of it because she is the one who sent him the idea.

Anonymous of course.

She continues.

"I don't know how long this will take, so as soon as I am finished it will be best to be prepared."

A pause. Silence.

"How?" George again.

Hermione looks over at him now and she sees uncertainty in his face.

He continues. "How are you going to do this?"

Hermione smiles then. Gently. At him. At Harry next to him, at Ginny holding Harry's hand.

Molly. Arthur. Minerva.

"I just am," she says.

Then turns from them and closes her eyes.

She has never done this. Not like this at least. She knows, somewhat, almost instinctively, how to redirect the magic away from the little girl. She'd done it before, as George had pointed out.

But this is different.

Bigger.

Not just strands of magic smoothed away with a steady hand.

Torrents. Pulsing at barriers.

Pulsing, pushing, demanding, against her own magic.

She feels it, gathering about the girl, gnashing its teeth, no longer tepid, no longer gentle, gnashing, clawing, snarling.

Something distant, in the back of Hermione's ever thinking mind, wonders at the change, wonders at the reason why.

But there will be time for such questions later, after she does this, does what she can.

Gathering herself.

Her own magic, she feels it, a deep pulsing in her blood, the regular magic, oranges, yellows, but also the shadowed magic, a grey tinge alongside those, and under it, supporting it, the red, bright crimson, blood magic, leaping with areas of black as deep as midnight with no moon.

Gathering it towards her.

Another thought, of Draco, wondering if he will feel what she is doing.

Dismissed.

The irony.

Again.

Refocusing.

And with a slow methodical thought she allows the shadows to grow, reaching out, tentatively, a toe in the water, testing.

The chaos she feels is almost too much and a part of her focus shakes, begins to break.

Attention, detail, she gathers those parts together, pieces, rebuilding, and then she does it again, fast, a strike.

Against the girls shadows, against her magic.

Somewhere distant a cry, a gasp.

The feel of someone, of something around her, and for a moment, just a mere moment, she is in control, catching at the chaos of the girl's magic and redirecting, absorbing it, dimly realising she is shaking at the effort, dimly realising her own magic is straining, burning.

A mere moment.

And then she loses control as the wisps of the magic become stronger, bigger, harder.

Demanding.

A tide, a current, against her mind, against her magic, enveloping, persistent. Her barriers crack, leaking, slipping of magic, pushing, pushing.

Pushing.

The barriers break.

A scream.

Distant.

As she is assaulted with the shadows, as her mind tries desperately to back away, to get away from the attack of grey magic, darkness, blackness, tinged with red, away, away, but she is not fast enough, she can't get away fast enough, her mind throwing up barriers, any barriers, but she is not fighting another wizard she is fighting the magic itself, a magic she helped create, and it responds to her, growing, growing, until she starts to lose, slowly, rushing up, rushing up on her.

Water against rocks.

Wearing away.

A whimper, as she starts to fade under the onslaught of magic, as she starts to slowly drown into it. Slowly, slowly, her base magic fading, the shadows taking it over, smothering it, demanding its place in her mind, in her body, in her senses, nerves.

Everywhere.

Until, just in the small reaches of her mind, in the part that is not screaming in pain, confusion, in horror. A small part of her mind thinks.

_Blood magic._

And suddenly it is there. The crimson colours rising up to meet the shadows, and the power is strong, undeniable, pushing everything away, burning it, slaughtering it, cleansing it, a pathway.

A light.

And Hermione finds that her eyes are open, that she is laying on a floor, that her entire mind and body is screaming in pain.

But her eyes are open.

Focused.

On a familiar face, so dear, green eyes filled with fear. Turning her head to see an equally familiar face with dark eyes, fathomless eyes.

Eyes that looked seriously angry.

A moment.

And then remembering.

"Did it work?" She croaks, tries, past the pain in her throat.

"Foolish, foolish girl," her ex-Professor swears, gently cradling her body with a hand so she can sit up.

She doesn't look over at Severus or the mediwitch who is waving a wand around her. Instead she focuses on Harry.

"Did it work?" She repeats, this time a little clearer, her throat hurting just slightly less.

Harry sits back on his hunches and then looks up to where a mediwitch is running diagnostic spells over Lily.

Hermione watches the colours play over her Goddaughter's body though she doesn't know what they mean.

A quietness in the room, as everyone watches the mediwitch, no one noticing when Severus helps Hermione to her feet, somewhat unstable, somewhat sick, though she controls it enough to make it to a chair across the room.

Hermione glances up at the taller man and recognizes the scowl on his face and knows she will be in for a lecture. She also notices that George is at her side almost immediately, enveloping one of her hands in his even as his eyes are focused on the diagnostic spells.

"You gave her the potion?" Hermione whispers, not able to speaker louder, struggling even for that.

It feels as her strength is slowly seeping even though she is clearly no longer under the influence of Lily's magic.

A grunt from the tall dark man next to her.

She takes it as a yes.

Focusing. The room spinning slightly, heat circling about her body as she struggles to keep her sight on the mediwitch, on the young girl with the flushed cheeks and hair the colour of Harry's.

Waiting.

Even as breath grows increasingly hard to take in and she knows she is beginning to shake. Chills running up and down her spine even as the heat sucks at her, circles her.

Focusing. A pinpoint of focus, blackness clouding around the corner of her vision, pushing, pushing.

Waiting.

Until the diagnostic spells stop and the mediwitch looks up at the parents, a smile blooming over her face.

"It appears as if it has worked."

And letting go.

Letting the darkness bleed into her focus, letting the soothing nature of unconsciousness move in.

Seeing the swirl of blood magic even as the black takes her.


	27. Chapter 27

"_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." F Nietzsche_

A curse. A past. Real.

Walking in the Burrow, leaning on his mentor, feeling the blood slowly fall down his arm, down his leg, down his neck.

Somewhere in the room full of people, a gasp, a rustle of movement.

Somewhere, a small voice crying out as Severus deposits Draco in a chair, the usual silky tones of the older man harsh as he calls out for what he needs.

Rustle of movement.

A potion, smelling vile, causing his stomach to revolt, causing the shakes to start, causing the bile to rise up in his throat.

Turning his head.

Sickness.

Such sickness.

Mind. Body.

Such sickness.

He knows it. Intimately now. A lover's embrace. A kiss on his lips.

Lips covered now in blood where he'd bit down on his lip. Bit, hard, the taste of blood, swallowing, dripping down his throat.

More voices.

And then a cool hand, a hand that does not belong to Severus, or to anyone else but one person.

The touch. A catalyst. The sickness a disease. And he throws off the hand, not looking up, scrambling out of the chair, pushing the chair back with a clatter, backing away, away from the hand without a face.

"Draco." A murmur. A question.

So much, too much. Shaking, animal, clinging to what? No longer sanity.

Sickness. Disease.

"Don't touch me, Mudblood."

Words. Out of his mouth.

A gasp.

A rise of anger. Twirling, madly, madly and he starts to laugh, because how very appropriate. How very, very appropriate.

Mudblood.

Looking through the hair falling across his face, falling into his eyes, looking at the witch in front of him, still fucking in front of him.

Dying. This is what it feels like.

He thinks.

As he shakes.

As the blood drips down his throat as the urge to defile, to strike out, to hurt, to kill, to murder. Real. Very real.

"The road paved to hell is littered with Mudbloods," he says, laughing, laughing.

Madness.

Anger. He feels it, loves it, feels the room about him reacting to his words, swirling, twirling, madly, lovely, ah, the madness, to dive into it, to let it cradle him, to live it. Madness. Madness.

"Out."

One word, spoken in the tone of his former Potions Professor.

One word.

He doesn't know. Doesn't know if they listen because the pain is growing, circling, the urge to vomit, the urge to defecate.

The urge to throw it all away. All far, far away.

Bloody fucking brilliant.

And the hand, that beautiful wonderful hand, connected to the beautiful wonderful witch, it touches him, his cheek, lightly.

A sharp retort. A sharp "Miss Granger".

But he is tired then, suddenly, and he looks up at her, at the witch in front of him. Looks up and meets her eyes and he does not see hatred. He does not see pity. He sees something else, something that causes the madness to take a step back, back.

What?

He doesn't know. Doesn't know. But could easily lose himself there. There.

And all would be right in the world.

To lose himself in her. He aches. Gods how he aches for it.

Not taking his eyes away from her as she moves her hand, her wand held steady, over the cut at his temple, over the slash along his arm, the cut at his shoulder, the warmth of her healing moving over him. In him.

And all he can do is stare.

Because this…what is this? And nothing makes sense. Not in so very long has anything made sense, and what he feels at that moment doesn't make sense and he no longer knows anything.

Anything at all.

And never once does she flinch, never once does she back away, so close he can smell her scent, mingling with his own.

Blood. Lavender.

Autumn. Murder.

Rape.

Memory. Madness creeping back in. Darkness swirling. A cackle. A taste of blood.

A hand. On his cheek. Delicate fingers, coolness against what is taking place in his mind.

"I'm going to take him up stairs so he can get cleaned up," she says over her shoulder at the tall dark man who is watching them with an expressionless face.

Not a word spoken.

And he is standing suddenly, just suddenly, and nothing makes sense, and they leave the kitchen, and no one notices. He hears voices in the library, away from them, but no one notices when the slight witch helps the taller wizard up the stairs, no one notices that her hand is supporting him, that her shoulder is supporting him, and that he leans into her.

No one notices.

And she opens the door to his room with a foot, gently, ever so gently, takes him to where his bed is and gently, ever so gently, lowers him to it.

He stares at her. Watching, watching as she goes over to where his clothes are, watching as she pulls out a clean pair of trousers and a clean shirt, watches as she comes back and stands in front of him, pausing, for just a moment, before reaching forward and pulling the Death Eater cloak away from him, pulling it off his shoulders, and then pausing, once more, before starting to unbutton his shirt with sure fingers.

Not even shaking.

He watches her.

The coolness of the room hitting his skin, the barely felt touch of her fingertips, making their down the row of buttons.

Watching her.

And when she is done she pulls the shirt away, pulls it off and throws it away from her. Blood thick, crusted on its fabric.

Watching her. A blush moving over her features as she looks down, away from him. "Can you do your trousers?"

A voice. Sweet, quiet, gentle.

Draco watches her. Does not answer her. Something breaking in him. Something so long in residence breaking in him.

He gets to his feet without answering her, his numb fingers stumbling over the clasp of his trousers, watching her turn away, even as he succeeds and the fabric slides off his hips, pooling on the floor.

Naked. In the frigid air.

Hermione turning around, looking straight into his eye, not looking down, not looking anywhere but at his face, waving her wand with a _Scourgify,_ and then handing him his clothes.

Never looking down.

He dresses slowly, energy giving away, tiredness so very heavy on his shoulders. Aching. Pain.

And the madness, tickling, on the edge of his mind, on the edge of his magic. Tickling.

Sitting back down on the bed.

Hermione watching him.

"The battle will be tomorrow," he says finally. Not recognizing his voice.

She does not immediately answer. Not immediately, instead she sits next to him on the bed. Close. But without touching.

Her smell.

It causes him to ache. And he doesn't understand. None of it he understands.

Continuing because he does not know what else to do. "He will attack tomorrow, it was confirmed tonight. Attack with everything he has."

Madness. Eating at him, nipping at him, licking its way up his mind.

Laughing, cackling.

In the silence of the room.

Though no sound is actually heard.

"What happened?" Such a quiet question.

The implications of what will be tomorrow so very large. So very huge.

Madness. Cackling, cackling.

"Draco?" The one name, a word, a question.

Echoing, echoing.

Breaking. Tearing.

Looking away from her. Looking away.

Remembering. Voicing the memory because he is teetering, a knife's edge, teetering, bloodying his feet as he tries to keep his balance.

Teetering.

Madness. The abyss.

What he has seen tonight. What he has seen in the past.

What he has done.

Teetering.

"Four nights before Severus brought me here I witnessed a mass murder." His voice.

Devoid of emotion.

Devoid.

A shiver at his side, from her, from the recognition of his words at her own memory of the night he came to the Burrow, at what she learned later was the reason for his state that night.

Heavy between them. The knowledge, heavy between them.

Draco. Continuing. "Because I had failed to kill Dumbledore I was forced to do things, to prove my allegiance, to prove I was a worthy Death Eater. Severus tried to shield me from things, tried to reason with the Dark Lord, but honestly, who can reason with a man of insanity."

A pause.

A hand, moving to him, taking his, intertwining her fingers with his and it amazes him, amazes him that she would even touch him, even be in the same room with him. Amazes.

Breaks.

Nothing making sense.

He looks down at their hands. Looks down at the long fingers of his and the smaller ones of hers.

Who would have thought it?

Who would have even imagined?

He keeps on because talking keeps the madness from eating him. Keeps him anchored.

Her cold hand in his. Six months now. Six months.

Continuing.

"The Dark Lord had me stay in one of the dungeons on the Malfoy Estate; my father put me there the day after I didn't kill Dumbledore. I was tortured, of course, for defiling orders, for not doing what I was supposed to do. Forced to kill my mother. Forced to watch as the Dark Lord cursed her. Kept in the dark. The dark. The cold. I can still feel the stones against my hands."

The other hand. Delicate, so very delicate, taking his other hand, a movement of body so she sits, cross-legged, on the bed, facing him.

"Brought out every night to take part in the Dark Lord's festivities, none of which were as crude or debase as what he did to my Mother, but different, subtle. Cruelty. It is what he loves more than pain. To be cruel. And so easy to fall into it, so easy to fall into the red eyes, to have the abyss around you and all you can think, all you can wonder is what would it feel like to jump into the abyss. All you wonder is if there really is a bottom to the abyss and wanting there to be because then perhaps your body will break on impact."

A pause.

"You don't have to do this, talk about this." Her voice, quiet, close.

He has been staring at their hands, linked, and he looks up, looks up and meets eyes full of compassion, warmth, horror, yes horror, but not at him, at the scene he is painting for her.

At his words.

And the feeling, of wanting to fall into her, of wanting to have her arms around him, stabling, comforting him, is almost too much, almost too much. The knowledge of what is happening between them a knowledge that cannot be named, titled.

Just is.

Knowledge.

He keeps his eyes steady on hers. "You must understand this, you must understand what I am."

A line, appearing between her eyes. "Why?"

His hands tightening around hers.

A tearing at his gut. The madness. Loud. In his ears.

"Because tomorrow Potter will defeat the Dark Lord."

Understanding dawning on her face. Understanding, followed by fear.

"We must do the spell tonight." Her words. Nails in the coffin. Nails between them.

Sharp. Pointed. Brutal.

Bloody.

Mortality rising up between them. Death. Life.

Connectors.

The abyss before him. Tantalizing. Seductive.

Cackling. In the silence.

"You must understand." He keeps on, keeps on though she has lost focus on the implications of his words.

Refocusing on her part. "Does it really matter?" Her voice somewhat lost, somewhat scared. A small child.

He remembers her. Bushy haired Gryffindor. The know it all.

And he wants to cry.

And he feels the bile rising in his throat. The unfairness. The complete unfairness between them, around them.

Knowing there is no other way. Knowing because they have tried to find a different way. Have tried to find some other way. And not finding it.

His hands tightening about hers. "It matters," he says.

And she leans into him then. Hermione, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around her, letting go of her hands so he can pull the witch into his chest, because what else is there for him to do.

What else.

And her weight falls into Draco and for a moment, just a moment; he closes his eyes and breathes her in.

Arms tightening around what is not his, but what he knows he wants.

_If only. If only._

And the tears, he feels them soaking his shirt, though she does not make a sound, though she does not move. The tears warm.

The witch in his arms warm.

Until she pulls slightly away from him, laughing, just a small gasp of a laugh as she wipes her hands across her face.

"I'm sorry," she says, moving away from him.

But he tightens his hold on her, his arms tensing, not knowing what he will do if she moves away, not knowing what to do, or what is going on. Just not knowing.

She relaxes back into him.

"I will die tomorrow." Hermione says and her voice is sad but not terrified.

It strikes terror in Draco and his arms once again tense around her.

Then relax. Because what she says is true and they have had several weeks to deal with the implications of it.

Only him, Severus and Hermione knowing the truth of what they are doing.

Only the three of them knowing there is no other way.

And Draco knowing that it is the truth for him too. Not because it is the way of the spell but because it is the way of his path.

A path he was pushed onto before he was even born. A foetus in his mother's womb.

And their knowledge, it is part of the greater knowledge, and it allows them to sit there.

Allows the mania, the madness, to whimper in disgust and frustration and slowly creep away in defeat.

"What happened tonight?" The question, swirling about them.

Draco holding on. Holding on.

Knowledge.

"The Dark Lord attacked a school, in upper London."

A hiss of breath, at his words.

Draco continuing. "We couldn't stop it, or do anything. We didn't know."

A pause. Then.

"How many?"

"A hundred teenage girls."

Madness. Circling. Circling. Vulture.

A face, turning into his shoulder, hot breath through the fabric. "Rape?"

One word. Echoing.

Echoing.

Her arms slipping around his waist, tightening.

"Yes."

The breath at his shoulder coming out in a sigh of horror. Of disbelief.

A moment.

And then.

Another question.

"You?"

Madness.

The irony of it all.

It sparks at the madness. Strings it about. Swirls it.

"No."

Because he hadn't, not even when his loyalty was being questioned, not even when the curses came his way, he hadn't, couldn't, lying, trying to lie by saying he would not defile himself on the horror that is a Muggle, even as other Death Eaters did. Even as he was still forced to watch.

Horror.

But none of that matters, not his reasons, not the fact that his loyalty is in question, none of it really matters because tomorrow it will end. The horror. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.

Because tomorrow finally. An end.

And he will be able to rest. Finally.

In the darkness.

Arms, feminine arms about his waist, holding on with an intensity, curls of hair under his chin, the feel of her pressed up against his body, relaxing in relief at his one word. Those are the things that matter.

Just then.

"What the bloody hell?" A voice, in anger, in horror, from the doorway.

Hermione jumping back from Draco as if scalded.

Irritation spiking and then dying away.

Because none of it matters.

Looking on the Weasel. Lifting an eyebrow at the fury in his face, red hair standing straight up, hands clenched at his side.

But none of it matters, and the retort on his tongue dies away.

"It's nothing, Weasley," he says, slowly getting up from the bed, pain, ricocheting through his body.

"Didn't bloody well look like nothing."

Voices rising.

"Ron," Hermione saying as she walks towards him.

Ron backing away from her in disgust.

Anger, moving through Draco, moving, cold, caustic.

"It doesn't matter, Weasley," his voice cold, demanding, edged.

A tone he rarely uses. A tone developed through the things he's done, seen, been through, catching the red head off guard.

Continuing.

"The war ends tomorrow. Tomorrow we are going into battle with the great Dark Wizard. This, this doesn't matter; you, her, your love with each other, that matters."

He's been walking across the room while talking and he stops just in front of Ron, looking at him, eye to eye. "Life, love, friendship. Those things matter. Love her, Ron, because it might be the last night for you to do so."

And he leaves the stunned and sickeningly white face of his long time nemesis, walking away from his room, away from the witch there with the soft brown eyes and the understanding, controlling himself once more as he walks down the stairs to join everyone in the library.

Madness, circling as all eyes turn to him and in their faces horror, pity, and he knows Severus has told them what has taken place, and what it means.

Sitting down in his customary chair just outside of the circle of people, taking the tea Molly Weasley comes over and hands him, almost spilling it on himself when she leans down and hugs him very quickly with one arm. Quick, but a rush of warmth, mother, wrapping around him.

A moment.

Before she goes and joins her husband on the couch.

Draco sips tea, looking at those around him, those who will be instrumental to the destruction of destruction itself.

So very, very important that they win.

Hope.

In the young wizard with brilliant green eyes staring into the fire as Severus talks to him.

And in the young witch who walks into the library, hand in hand with her boyfriend, glancing at him, just a mere moment, but long enough for Draco to see something there.

A knowledge.

Without a name.

His attention, inward, thinking, analyzing, so very confused, so very tired.

Echoes. Thoughts.

Acknowledgements. That he loves that witch.

That Mudblood.

And doesn't know how he knows or why.

But knows nevertheless.

Shattering. Sanity.

But quietly because he is so very tired.

Realising dimly that Severus is telling everyone of what tonight meant, of what is the plan, of what they can expect tomorrow. The battle. After so many battles. The catalyst. When the Dark Lord will have everything, put out everything because he believes Potter will be weak.

The anniversary of his parent's death.

The point at which the magic is fractured.

The moment pushed by the Order itself because the only horcruxes that are left is the scar on Harry's forehead and the snake about the Dark Lord's feet.

Tomorrow.

And dimly Draco notices that Remus is holding Tonks close, that Arthur and Molly are hugging, that everyone is touching, supporting, recognizing what it means, though none of them really knowing.

And Minerva going over the final plan with Severus, in clear tones, going over what everyone's roles are, outlining them.

"So Hermione and Draco will perform the spell tonight," Minerva is saying, and everyone looks paler, as her words carry, and he sees Remus shooting him a glance of pity, of thankfulness that he doesn't have to do what they have to.

And it irritates Draco. But at the same times pleases him. And he cannot understand the reaction.

His reaction.

Losing himself in thoughts as the rest of the plan is laid out, as everyone slowly starts to bleed out of the room, only regaining focus when there is only Ron, Harry, Severus, Hermione, and him in the room.

Moments.

And Draco wonders if Ron is going to be ok with what is about to take place.

Watching though as Severus talks quietly with the two boys, watching as Ron pulls Hermione into a hug, kissing her.

A flare. Hot. Putrid.

Quickly snuffed. Because what ifs are not the reality. Because insanity is peaceful, because madness leads to darkness.

And he would love to fall into darkness.

Never to rise to the light again.

Dimly seeing the two of them break apart, seeing them leave the room, seeing Severus going to the door, seeing the older man turning around, seeing him place wards up, not understanding, understanding.

They have discussed this. The spell, volatile, must be precise, the utmost concentration.

Only them. Watching Severus look over at him, meeting the dark gaze of his mentor, his Godfather, seeing compassion, yes, but steel, and he knows that he will not fail because there is no reason to fail.

The older man bowing then, low, deep, looking at Draco and then at Hermione.

"Good luck."

Is what he says.

And then he too turns and leaves, the door shutting behind him.

Silence.

Between the two of them.

Like so many times before.

But different because tonight they know what they have to do and they know what it will mean tomorrow.

Draco, looking on her, seeing a curl fall from her hastily applied knot of hair at the back of her head, watching in slow motion as her hand moves up and tucks it behind his ear. The act so simple, so Hermione and his gut clenches because this witch, this woman, she is so much.

Ifs. They are the suicidal syrup of a madman.

He looks away.

And then back up when he can feel her in front of him. Not even realising she'd moved until she stops in front of him and he can smell her.

An abyss. He has looked into the mind of madmen and he has looked in the depths of the darkness, and when he looks up and sees her, all he sees is more darkness because in the end, it doesn't matter. Not really.

Not until she leans down. Not until he feels her lips feather light across his own.

Feather light.

Backing away. And in her eyes acknowledgement.

And in his sadness.

Tired. So very tired.

And without words he gets up and follows her to the rug in front of the fireplace, falling into a cross-legged position, across from one another, familiarity after hours of being in such a position, arguing, debating, talking. Hours.

It amazes him.

Even as everything becomes so very clear.

Love. Irony.

Abyss.

Madness.

And finally tenderness. And it pulls at him because when in his life has Draco known tenderness?

But it breathes in front of him, searching his face.

And he can't help but feel guilt because of what he is about to do, can't help but feel worried, horrified, knowing that he is about to commit this woman to a death.

Something must have shown on his face because his hands are in hers again, holding them and she is looking at him, holding his eyes.

"Draco, it's okay." She says the words quietly.

Tearing.

Continuing. "This is the only way. You know this, I know this, and I'm okay because my life is inconsequential in comparison to the defeat."

His hands squeezing hers, squeezing, squeezing. "You will never ever be inconsequential." Said through gritted teeth.

Suddenly there is too much for him to say, too much, and no words to say it, and the knowledge, it's on his tongue, and he wants to say it, wants to tell her, wants to let her know, but he can't because it's too much, and he doesn't have the words, has never had the words.

But something has changed between them, something in the long hours they have worked together, and when he looks up at her, and when he tightens his hands, he sees the knowledge there, glimmering in her eyes and no words are said because no words have to be said.

An understanding of who they are, what they are, between them, and what it is they are about to do.

Letting their hands fall.

"_Accio_ wand," both said, at the same time.

Their wands in their hands.

All non-verbal.

The spell.

Brown eyes. Silver eyes.

Curly hair, straight hair.

Opposites.

Opening the top buttons of his black shirt so his chest is showing.

Hermione doing the same with her white shirt.

Exposing creamy skin.

A hand. A finger. He can't control it and when he touches the skin of her chest with the tip of his finger he sees her shiver, the pulse between them, not there, not yet, but still tangible.

"Draco." Her voice wavering, strangled.

And he looks away from his finger against her skin, up to where her eyes are burning into him, pleading.

And he drops his finger.

Because they have a spell to cast.

Because they are not who they want to be, at least, not at that moment.

Irony.

He drops his finger, looking down at his hand, one empty, one with his wand.

"Ready then?" He asks.

"Yes." Voice stronger. Brave.

He looks up.

The words.

Love.

On the tip of his tongue.

Thanks. But so much more.

She sees it. She sees it and this time it is her who reaches over with a finger, to place it across his lips.

"Shh." She says, and her voice is gentle, her finger caressing. "I know."

A pause, and a slight quickening along the side of her mouth, the warmth of her eyes burning.

Then.

"Me too."

All the world, rushing through him.

All the euphoria.

She drops her finger.

They lift their wands, placing the tips at a point, under each other's chins, and they close their eyes.

They've memorized the words and now they circle around and around in Draco's mind, he says them, non-verbal, words, circling, circling.

Something. Rising up, moving through him, the twinkling of magic, the smoothness.

Abyss.

Darkness.

And behind his eyes he sees colours, brilliant colours, twining, twining, and suddenly he can feel her, the words, circling, circling, and he can feel this witch, who has become so much to him, her magic, intertwining.

And opening his eyes.

Looking at her.

She has also opened her eyes, and they stare, wands pointed at each other, tips pushing, pushing, the pain, yes, searing, but pleasure, completeness, searing.

Words. Circling, circling.

Creating, and in her he can see himself, the history of them, spread out behind them, the worlds they've lived, swirling about them, and with it something more, hot, heated, and then.

Cold.

Frigid. So cold they both gasp.

His chest reacting to the sudden onslaught of cold, ice, her wand piercing him, seeing, not seeing, her eyes go wide, at the coldness, revolving about them, revolving, revolving, heated, yes, but with cold fire, with ice fire.

The words.

And something else.

A tugging at his spine.

A gasp from her lips that he can feel wavering about all his nerves. Tugging.

Pulling. Back and forth.

Coldness. So cold.

And their wands. Steady on each other. Words circling about, and in her he sees what he could have been, what he could have become, in her he sees so much more than what he realises.

Redemption.

Hope.

Staring in the abyss.

Suddenly the magic that is swirling about them, starts to rise, a pressure, pressing, upwards, upwards, so hard to breath, but so alive, circling, circling, rising, higher and higher until it bursts, and he feels warmth then, at the point under his chin, warmth that slowly slides down his chest, slides, with the magic swirling about them.

Blood.

Slides.

Quiet.

Suddenly.

Staring at Hermione Granger.

Who stares back at Draco Malfoy.

Hope. Darkness. Feeling one another.

Love.

A whisper along their skins.

Without words.

A bond.

And between them two blood stones, flickering red before slowly falling away to black.

Neither of them realising what the stones mean.


	28. Chapter 28

Severus Snape, ex-Death Eater, Potions Master, Dark Arts Master, long-time Slytherin, and once a hater of everything Gryffindor, catches one Hermione Granger as she slips to the floor unconscious.

No one notices.

Not until his tall dark form straightens upwards and his fury washes across the room with a suddenness that leave several people cold.

All heads turn and the room is suddenly too quiet, too small, as all see the dark wizard holding their Hermione in his arms. The fact that this man cradles the curly head of his former student with ease and familiarity is not lost on most of them, nor the fact that he is glowing with rage.

Chaos breaks out as George immediately calls for the mediwitch, as Harry moves from the side of his daughter to the side of his best friend, as Molly instantly starts asking questions. All the while Severus holds Hermione close to him, his eyes harder, darker, and more furious then many have seen them in a long time.

Causing Harry to stop in his approach.

Causing George to stop in his intent to take the witch from the taller wizard.

Shutting Molly off in mid-sentence.

And finally, causing the mediwitch to pause before visibly shaking herself and continuing forward.

The small woman immediately takes over the situation by coming up to the girl in the man's arms and casting a diagnostic charm.

And then another.

A frown growing between the mediwitch's eyes, a frown that causes something in Severus' gut to clench.

Another spell.

"Oh dear." The murmur of a mediwitch, something no one wants to hear.

Least of all Severus, who immediately thinks of his Godson.

"What is it?" He bites out.

The mediwitch looks up at the tall dark man, wincing at the look in his eyes. "Her magic. Come with me, we need to put her in another room."

With those words, the silence of the room is broken and several people start talking at once, including George at his side, Harry in front of him, and Molly just in the corner.

"Silence." His voice a whip of power.

Silencing them instantly.

"Locate Draco Malfoy," he says, even as he turns to follow the mediwitch.

"What?" This exclamation from George. "Why?"

Severus does not look over at the Weasley. He focuses his gaze on Harry. "Find Mr. Malfoy immediately."

Severus doesn't stop to see if Harry obeys, knowing he will do so, never doubting it as he follows the mediwitch out of Lily's room and immediately into the one across the hall.

The witch in his arms is a light thing and he carries her with ease, memories from ten years before assaulting him with an uncanny ability as he remembers doing just this off the bloodied battle field.

Malfoy staggering at his shoulder, holding her wand in his hand, distress, fear, but something else clear and bright in the young man's eyes.

The ex-professor remembers the look distinctly because it was one that he had always hoped to witness in his Godson's eyes, tenderness that he had hoped the young man would some day find.

A gaze, however, he has not seen since.

Placing her on the bed, Severus steps back to look down on the woman, noticing the paleness of her face, the dark circles under her eyes, and the slightly drawn skin over her cheekbones. He wonders if the signs of stress upon her person are from what she has just done or if it is because of the last several weeks of working with Draco.

He has a feeling it is the latter rather then the former.

Severus watches as the mediwitch fusses, casting more and more spells, shaking her head as she does so, the worried frown between her eyes still present.

The woman finally looks over at the tall dark wizard. "What exactly did she do in there?" She asks finally.

She almost steps back at the scowl that suddenly graces the man's features. "The fool girl tried to absorb the child's magic."

The mediwitch's face pales at his words. "She tried to absorb the magic, but that is…"

She broke off, not sure how to end that.

Severus ends it for her. "It is suicide. Yes, I am aware of that, as should have several of the other wizards and witches in that room, but fools are in company of fools and it has always been such." Breathing slowly out to regain control.

A harsh retort, but more in control. "So, what is the damage?"

The mediwitch winces at the tone and turns back to the woman in the bed. "I am not entirely sure. I have to run a few more diagnostics and tests, but it seems as if she is just unconscious; however, her magic is behaving very strangely and I hesitate to not call it a magic-induced coma." A frown, playing across the woman's features as she waves her wand across Hermione once more, shaking her head. "I don't know, I have never seen this type of magical response before. I am going to contact our department head, Belani, talk with him and have him come to see what he believes."

Severus nods once, curtly. "Is she in any danger right now?"

The mediwitch shakes her head. "No. Beside her state of consciousness, it doesn't appear as if there is anything physically wrong with her. I've put a monitoring spell on her though so if anything at all changes I will know immediately."

Another curt nod, though the dark eyes are no longer trained on the mediwitch but rather on Hermione.

The mediwitch is extremely glad of the fact and hurriedly leaves the room.

Severus does not. Seating himself on a chair next to the bed, he silently stares at his former student, dark eyes expressionless as he watches the slow rise and fall of her breath.

He is not the least surprised when the door opens suddenly and his Godson walks into the room, though it has only been several moments and not nearly enough time for someone to have found him and brought him back.

Severus knew when he told Harry to get Draco that there was a very good chance Draco was all ready on his way.

But hadn't been certain, and the knowledge that he was correct and the implications behind it are filed away into Severus' ever questioning and answering mind.

Draco's face is expressionless, though the quick tightening of his jaw gives him away when he takes in the sight of Hermione lying unconscious in the bed.

He looks up and captures Severus eye, but before he asks anything Minerva walks in behind him, her gaze also reverting to the witch, followed by Harry.

He feels his Godson's irritation, anger, fury at the two individuals, as if it is his own and he quickly stands from his chair.

"Draco stay here with Miss Granger, I wish to speak with Mr. Potter and Minerva."

Barely a glance in his direction from his Godson. Not that he expected it.

The other two follow him out of the room.

Harry looking pensive, Minerva looking as if she is bursting with questions.

Severus sighs inwardly at what he knows is coming.

_Bloody Gryffindors, they are all the same._

He thinks even as Minerva asks her first question.

"What did the mediwitch say?"

Her first question.

"She believes she is in a magic-induced coma."

Minerva puts a hand up to her mouth, eyes widening slightly in fear. Harry does not look away from the door they just came through, but Severus sees a paling along the boy's features.

"Is she sure?"

"Quite. A fool stunt that was; did neither of you even think to consider what it was Miss Granger was going to do?"

Guilt now, on both Harry and Minerva.

A disgusting snort from Severus. "I thought not. You let her try to absorb that child's magic; perhaps you do not know the implications of that Mr. Potter, but Minerva you should have."

Minerva nodding, her eyes twinkling in tears she will not shed. "Of course. I just, I believed Hermione would understand, would know better."

Another snort. "I'm sure Miss Granger knew exactly what she was doing; however, do neither you, her favourite professor, nor you, her best friend, understand anything about Miss Granger. To say that you did not think she would attempt such a thing shows that you have very little insight, or chose to have very little insight, into her."

The words harsh, angry, because Severus is truly angry with the two in front of him.

"She would do it anyway, despite what it did to her." A dull voice. Harry still not looking at his two former professors, staring at the door, his face pale.

Severus does not deem the need to answer. Watching them both.

Minerva visibly gathers herself, placing the cloak of Headmistress about her shoulders.

Severus knows what question is coming next.

"How did Draco know?"

This turns Harry's attention from the room he just left and to his former Head of House. It amuses Severus that the question surprises Harry.

"Whatever do you mean Minerva?" He asks, out of habit, because he likes to see the older woman scowl at him.

"You know what I mean young man. Draco was already at the hospital when Harry and I left to find him."

A slight rise of an eyebrow, slight smirk to his lips. "Coincidence?"

"No. Not a coincidence," she said, waspish.

The smirk growing slightly.

"It's true, Severus," Harry says, breaking into what is about to be a nasty reply from Minerva.

Severus turns his gaze on Harry, the younger man looking at his old professor thoughtfully now, though guilt and sadness still lines his features and echo in his green eyes.

Harry continues. "He knew something happened to Hermione because we walked into him as soon as we left the ward."

"And he demanded to know where Hermione was," Minerva adds, voice still slightly cool in reaction to Severus' baiting.

Severus nods slightly. "It's their bond."

A moment, which Severus watches with even more amusement though nothing shows on his features. Those are bland and expressionless.

Minerva goes white, a typical response, though Severus is intrigued to see none of the surprise on Harry's face.

"The binding spell is that strong then?" Harry asks, thoughtful still, and Severus is reminded that he is talking with the Minister of Magic, killer of Voldemort; no longer a teenager in his potion's classroom.

"All blood magic is that strong." He answers.

Amused again to hear Minerva gasp this time and to see some of that thoughtful look wiped off of Harry's face.

Most satisfying.

After all, a bit of him is still the greasy git.

A smirk. Just showing alongside his face.

"You are not serious, Severus? Blood magic?" Minerva finally asks.

"I most assuredly am." Severus replies, knowing that Minerva is trying to work out the details of how that could be even as she stands there staring at him.

Harry shakes his head. "I don't understand. I thought what they did was some kind of binding spell, but just that, nothing more. How can there be blood magic? And anyway, I thought blood magic was only shared between family members?"

_Like my mother and I._

Is the tagged statement though Harry does not say it.

Severus shrugs nonchalantly, though he sneers the next words. "One does not have to be related to partake in blood magic, nor in a blood binding, boy."

Harry winces at the tone.

Severus continues. "But, I do believe the binding was supposed be just a binding of magic, inducing a compulsion and nothing more than that. But something, some outward influence, made its presence known and the spell did not occur as it should have."

Minerva and Harry staring at him. Minerva slowly narrowing her eyes as the puzzle is worked out in her mind.

"And this outward influence?" She asks, though she already knows the answers but has to hear it confirmed before she will think on what it could possibly mean.

Severus can't help but let the smirk grace his face, looking back and forth between the wizard and witch.

"Love."

One word.


	29. Chapter 29

It had felt like drowning. A suffocating and overwhelming need to breath, air, something, scarring his throat, desperate.

Needing air.

And when he finally realized that there was something seriously wrong. When he finally realized that something was decidedly off, he was already on the floor, several students looking down on him in concern and one student, Gryffindor of all the ironic things, setting off to get Madam Pomfrey.

Before he could gather his breath and tell everyone to bugger off.

But his voice hadn't worked, and nothing came out, even as another onslaught of whatever it was caused a momentary blacking sensation, his vision dimming as shadows slowly made their way across his sight.

Pain.

A lot of pain.

And underneath it knowing, with a twisting of his gut so substantially to leave him doubled over, that there was not only something wrong with him, but something wrong with her.

Hermione

A whisper. Warning, panic, her voice, his voice, not entirely sure, knowing though something was very, very wrong.

Visions of red, blood, black, crimson, visions of gray, swirling madly behind his closed eyes. So very madly. Making no sense.

And the pain.

Almost unbearable, hearing the voices of the students, hearing Madam Promfrey arrive, knowing that she was asking him questions and unsure what the words were or what he was supposed to say in response.

Unsure.

Until suddenly the pain was gone.

Magic gone.

Emptiness.

Completely.

And then panic. As he struggled to his feet, as he shoved people away, running through the passageways, out of the castle, off the property and Disapparating immediately to St. Mungo, knowing, knowing as if it was his own body, mind, knowing something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Only somewhat realizing Harry and Minerva coming his way, realizing they are speaking, hearing something about Severus requesting his presence, and something about Hermione being sick.

But knowing it is more than sickness.

Knowing.

With a wrenching pain in his gut, at the base of his spine, somewhere, something, his magic maybe, screaming, in pain, fear.

Not understanding if it is her or him, and not understanding what is taking place.

But knowing. Knowing.

Until he walked into the room.

And saw her. Lying on the bed, curls about her head.

An echo of a memory before.

Wrenching. Because something was very, very wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

He sits now, next to her, not touching her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the slow flutter of her pulse at her neck. Seeing, but not seeing, as he slowly and methodically takes down his barriers, down his wards, so he can feel her, feel something of her magic.

All the while wondering what it is he experienced. And why his experience had been so substantial even with his wards in place.

Not understanding.

But knowing, instinctively perhaps, like an itch needing a scratch, or better yet a cool hand against a fevered brow.

Knowing.

Resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands as he focuses, methodical, precision, focus, to take down what it took several days to create. Thinking, briefly, oh so very briefly, that he is mad to do this, that there is no reason for him to do this. Wondering, asking, what exactly it will accomplish.

But not caring.

Not really.

Focus. On the knowledge even as the wards start to fall, even as each fine strand of the wards break away the more and more he is aware of her.

Of her magic.

Swirling in a darkness that he has never seen before.

Shadowed.

Sickingly sweet and oiled.

A taste on his tongue that revolts him, that makes him want to gag, even as he continues, head in his hands, eyes closed.

Methodic.

Focus.

Using her breath. The steady sound of her breath in the otherwise silent room binding him to reality even as he delves further and further into his magic.

He feels the presence of the dark wizard before he can hear him and with wards only half fallen he looks up at his former professor standing at the doorway.

Answers.

"What happened?" His voice rigid cold, noticing Harry and Minerva behind Severus, noticing they both flinch at his question.

Severus does not look away from his Godson, seeing the strain on his face, the pallor, the line of his clenched jaw.

"She tried to absorb the younger Potter's magic."

Draco hears the words. Hears and understands and suddenly the worry, the pain, the feeling of loss, of whatever this is, circling about his person, turns to fury.

Cold fury.

Gray eyes turning to steel as he looks beyond Severus to the Minster of Magic.

Green eyes looking at him, guilt, pain, clear in the other man's features.

But Draco sees none of this, none of it. Standing, slowly, easy, elegant, ever so elegant, even though the pain still courses through his system and his magic is behaving strangely.

But still ever so graceful.

Severus knowing instantly that the man in front of him is quickly losing grasp with reality, in response to his feelings for the woman in the hospital bed, or because of the reaction from the binding.

But knowing. Seeing it before. Once before.

"Mr. Potter, Minerva, I believe you both should leave. I will inform Draco of what occurred."

Draco looking at the two of them standing behind his mentor and slowly shakes his head. "No Severus, I believe I want to know from them, I want an explanation from them, because I'm sure they know exactly what it is that happened."

Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived, and the Boy-With-Too-Much-Courage, steps around his former professor.

Severus hisses out a breath even as Draco slowly makes his way around the bed.

"Hermione said that she knew what to do to save Lily." Harry tried, putting his hands out, in submission, in guilt, in apology.

Draco stilling then, suddenly, not moving from where he stands at the foot of the bed. "And you did not think to ask her how she would do that? How she would accomplish that? Did not think to question her actions even though you know that she would do anything to save your child, her Goddaughter."

A pause, thickness, pain. Continuing. "Especially if she felt it was her fault."

Minverva wincing.

Draco's voice, smooth, precise, silk chilled to ice. Dropping. "You didn't take into consideration she would do anything to protect your daughter and never think once about herself."

A smirk. Fury, hatred, in the steel eyes. "Are you really that big of a fool?" A step. "Or perhaps, you don't care?"

Harry paling at Draco's words, until the last ones, until the last statement and then the temper is there, the temper only slightly softened by the years and the responsibilities. "You don't understand anything." Anger behind his words, anger fueled by a guilt.

Draco's smirk turning into something more, something manic, his magic swirling about his person, swirling, swirling.

"No? Or perhaps I understand too much. Perhaps I understand that you have always depended on her to get you out of messes, always depended on her to come up with solutions, even if those solutions cost her life in the end."

And suddenly Harry's fury is as great as Draco's as the words revolve around the room, as the two wizards face, their magic, one brilliant in its righteous colors, the other dark and menacing, colors, for anyone who knows how to look.

"And you are no better Malfoy." Harry, stepping forward again, past Severus who looks on the two other wizards with a blank expression though suddenly, just then, his wand in his hand.

Harry continuing. "You, who voluntarily bound yourself to her with the full knowledge that you were taking her magic, you were sucking her dry, like a bloody vampire, killing her, wasn't that what you were going to do if everything had worked out. Killed her?"

And Draco pales, and then a flush, just slightly, barely any colour at all, gracing the tops of his cheekbones. Hand curling into a fist, at his side, control, even as he gathers his magic about him. "For you Potter, so you could survive, always fucking you."

And Harry knows it's the truth but he doesn't care, the hurt, the betrayal that he has felt since Hermione told him of what she did coming to the forefront of his thought, directed towards the man in front of him. Once an enemy, then an ally, and if he is truthful with himself, the man who has taken his Hermione, now, then, it doesn't matter, but it infuriates him.

Harry's wand in his hand now, though he doesn't raise it. Years of experience, he doesn't need to raise his wand, he can use words, words to hurt, attack.

And he does. "What about now Malfoy? What about now? You're hurting her now, and I don't know how or what you are doing, but I see it, in her face, in the way she moves. Those shadows under her eyes, they weren't there before, a month ago, not until you came into her life. Hermione is hurting, and it's because of you. Whatever it is going on between you, it's hurting her worse than I ever have or ever could."

A moment of silence.

Then.

Harry. "You have always hurt her."

Grey eyes and green locked. The words attached, the words that Draco knows are true even though they are not said.

_You will always hurt her._

Words not said. Not needed.

The implications clear.

Grey eyes dropping to the floor.

And the fight is gone, the fury gone, coldness seeping in through the tiles of the hospital floor, up through his feet, legs, torso, neck, circling about his mind.

Circling, circling.

The entrance of the mediwitch followed by a mediwizard breaking the silence of the room, the thickness of it, the plump woman bustling in with the thin short man behind her.

The two of them stopping to look at the four people standing in the room.

Then the mediwizard speaks. "Excuse me, I don't know what is going on here, but I want to examine Miss Granger and I need all non family to leave the room."

The mediwizard is somewhat surprised when all four leave the room.

But Draco has no fight. And he knows what is wrong, at least, he can feel it echoing and throbbing and does not need to have the mediwizard's confirmation.

Though he does not go far and stops just outside her door. Not looking at the other three, though he hears Harry say something about checking on Lily, and Minerva saying she will go with him, and then knowing it is just him and Severus.

A moment.

Then a soft voice, strange in its gentleness.

"The words were spoken because Mr. Potter was upset."

Draco does not look over at his mentor, does not look away from the spot on the wall that he is staring at.

Silence.

Then a sharp. "Draco."

He looks then, away from the spot at the wall to the taller wizard staring down at him, something distant, something detached, surprised that Severus is only slightly taller then him, just a small amount.

The ex-professor continuing. "Mr. Potter does not know of what he speaks."

A twisted smirk, one side of Draco's face, not reaching his eyes, not reaching the coldness there, blankness there. "Potter has always known what he is talking about."

Standing there, staring at Severus, meeting the dark black eyes of the man, not caring if his mind is broached. Not caring.

Because he has always hurt her.

And always will.

The words, the implications, the meaning, circling, circling.

Vaguely realizing that the mediwitch and mediwizard leave then, talking between themselves.

Vaguely realizing he should probably ask what it is they found through their diagnostics.

But knowing. Knowing all ready, because he can feel her even through his still established wards, feels her, feels her magic.

And he has always hurt her.

Turning from Severus standing at the door, turning, placing his back to him.

Slowly he goes back into the room, still elegant, still graceful, but no longer predatory, no longer out for blood.

Because blood has been spilt. All ready. Too much.

Mind. Body.

Coming to her bed, looking down at her, at the witch that means definitions, thoughts, that means many things.

Tiredness.

So much.

And cold.

Brutal.

Through his entire body.

He walks around her bed to the chair next to it, sitting, leaning forward until his forehead comes to rest on cold unresponsive hand of Hermione.

And there he stays. Eyes closed.

Slowly focusing, gathering himself, and with the methodical nature of a weaver begins to unravel his wards once more.


	30. Chapter 30

This time they were sitting at the kitchen table, the winter moon coming in through the window, tea things between them.

The air around them was silent and dark; everyone else was asleep, quiet with the calm of a winter's perfect night.

"Why?" She asked, her voice small.

Draco watching her, watching the way the fire light leapt across her features, highlighting the curls around her face. She wore a faded jumper and a pair of sleeping pants.

"Because they were your parents." He replied, looking away from her and down at his hands.

Hermione looked up at him then, noticing the moon played with his hair, turning it from white to silver. A platinum colour.

She searched his face, searched his tone for anything to give away what he felt, what he was feeling, anything at all, but his tone was bland and his face gave away nothing.

So different, she thought, sipping her tea then, so different from the boy she knew in school, from the boy who showed up in the Burrow garden several months ago. He'd learned to control his emotions, control his expressions, control so very much and she was glad, glad because it meant he would survive.

Though when the Mark called him and he put on his robes she couldn't help but worry, worry to the point of not being able to eat or sleep.

Though she wouldn't think about the implications of that.

But right then she wanted to know what he was thinking, staring down into his teacup; knowing but not understanding why it was so important for her to know his reaction.

"When?"

She asked, trying to keep her voice level, trying to keep the tears from coming through but not succeeding. The grief was still too raw, too much, razor blades in her throat, in her stomach.

Draco looked up at the witch across from him. He heard the tears in her tone even before he could make out the glimmer of them in the dim lights of the fire and the moon before she dropped them to gaze at the table.

"The night before I came here," he answered, watching her pale at his words, watching her fingers tighten about her teacup.

"And you were there?" She asked, voice little more than a whisper.

Looking up at him then, her eyes swirling with sadness, meeting his.

In hers he saw sadness, grief, pain.

In his, understanding. Empathy.

Her breath caught at the uncharacteristic emotion there.

"Yes." He answered.

Both of them looking away, back at their tea sitting in front of them.

Until Hermione looked.

"Tell me." She requested quietly, so quietly he almost didn't hear the two words.

"What?"

He looked up and met her eyes once more.

In them pleading this time. And resolve.

"Tell me what happened."

Draco shook his head, pushing himself away from the table, away from her, to go back to bed, to get away from that request, halfway up from his chair.

She caught his hands in her own, caught and held with a grip that was almost painful.

"Tell me." She repeated.

He half stood, his hands in hers, looking down on her, studying her, noticing the shadows under her eyes, the strain along the side of her mouth.

The curls around her face. Framing it.

"Why?"

A strangled question and the control broke just a little more about him.

And her answer quiet, gentle almost. "Because I need to know."

Draco slowly shook his head. The irony of it, of her tone, of her request, the question.

"You really don't."

Stubbornness, something else, causing the witch to raise her chin. "I really do."

And then sighing in defeat because he can't say no, sighing and seating himself back in the chair.

Though she didn't let go of his hands.

And he didn't try to take them away.

"Tell me."

Quietly.

And he did, twisting his hands so that their fingers interlocked.

Staring at them as he began.

"Severus didn't know." He started. Pausing. Continuing.

"I don't think Severus knew that they were the target that night because when we Apparated behind their house I caught his gaze and there was horror in his look and it surprised me because he never shows emotion and for a moment he did. I think I understood at that point that Severus was still working with the Order, just that moment. It was just him and I, thankfully, because I think others would have came to the same conclusion, but Severus was my keeper so it was only the two of us for a moment and I only saw it, but he knew I saw it and I feared for my life. I was surprised when he didn't do anything, instead moving towards the house when everyone else Apparated around us."

"Who?" Her question interrupting him.

He looked away from their hands and up to her eyes.

"Me, Severus, my aunt, my father, Goyle." A smirk of pain crossed his features briefly. "A large entourage for two Muggles."

Hermione winced at his words but did not let go of his hands; instead she squeezed them gently and Draco looked away from her eyes.

Not sure what he saw.

But knowing he didn't deserve it.

But Hermione felt compassion, felt it through her entire body because she saw the horror written across Draco's features. She saw the pain alongside the smirk and somehow that made it better, if only by a small amount.

Knowing he suffered. That he had pain.

Equal if not more than her own.

He continued. Voice strained, tightening the grip on her hands though he didn't know he did it.

"They were sleeping. We came in through the kitchen, and…" he paused, shaking his head slightly.

"You don't need to hear this Hermione." He almost whispered. A breath, between them.

Hermione, who felt as if something was squeezing her chest, some kind of pressure pressing down, pressing down, slowly nodded her head.

"I do."

And because her strength and courage was something that awed him, even then, starting then perhaps, he continued.

"They were upstairs sleeping. Goyle stayed downstairs to watch in case something happened, if the Order showed up, the rest of us went upstairs. Your dad was the first to figure out what it was, what was happening, who we were."

A gasp. A low guttural moan, from across from him.

He didn't look up, couldn't look up, continuing because she had requested it.

Monotone voice.

"He knew, and he said that you weren't there. My father…" A pause, a feeling of something tearing his gut. "My father laughed then and said, he said, that we weren't there for his Mudblood daughter but for them, to give his Mudblood daughter a lesson."

Hermione felt something dark reach up and grasp her throat at his words, knowing, always knowing that her parents died because of her, but to have it out there, in the air.

It was too much.

Feeling the tears running down her face, part of her wanting to scream at him, at the boy across from her, another part wanting to hide in his shoulder, to have him wrap his arms around her.

Silence as he refused to look up at her, as he continued to stare at their hands, feeling her grief, feeling it even though he does not see the tears rolling down her face.

Knowing.

He continued.

"My aunt had the idea to get information out of them, for your location."

A gasp.

"They didn't know." Hermione said.

Draco nodding, still not looking up at her.

"I know. But my aunt, she was crazy, insane."

Silence.

Hermione, voice strangely detached. "So she tortured them."

Draco bowing his head. "I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm so sorry."

Then.

"Tell me."

Draco looking up. "What?"

Seeing the resolve in her eyes, the fury.

"Tell me what they did, what they used."

Shaking his head, afraid at the madness he saw straining about Hermione's gaze.

"I don't…"

Cutting him off. "Tell me."

So he did. Slowly. Methodically, watching as her face lost all colour, as her lips turned white and her eyes glowed, sunken in her face, until she got up suddenly, got up and ran to the sink, wretching in sickness.

He followed before he knew what he was doing. Followed and went to her, gathering curls in his hands, pulling them away from her face as she vomited again and again, liquid putrid, the sound harsh in the otherwise silent room, silent night.

He knew she should hex him, at least push him away, knew that he should be killed, tortured, for watching as others did that to her parents.

But she did not move away, finally, when nothing more came up, standing, trembling against the sink, leaning against it, shaking.

But not moving away.

Because she felt his hand curled against her neck, cool against the heated skin there, sickness swirling around her stomach still, at the images, at the thoughts, sickness still, but his presence steady, his hand cool.

Holding her hair gently away from her face.

Until he let it drop and filled a glass of water.

Holding it our towards her.

His hand shaking just slightly. Ever so slightly.

She took it, still trembling, falling slowly to the floor and leaning up against the wall.

Draco falling next to her. Not touching.

"What happened to you?" She finally asked.

Draco startled next to her, looking over. "What do you mean?"

"If that was the night before you came to the Burrow, what happened to you? You were mad, incoherent, and there was so much blood."

A moment.

Draco struggled with what to say.

"I tried -" He started, paused, lost, not knowing where to go from there, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. Desperately needing her not to get the wrong impression.

Words quiet. Barely spoken. "I tried to stop them."

Hermione forgot the pain then, for a moment. Forgot the pain as she looked over at him in surprise.

"What?"

Draco shook his head. "Don't think I did it for you, or them. I think I went mad, watching Bella do that, knowing there was no need, seeing so much of it, being in the cell, I think I went mad, well, I was mad by then, but that was the catalyst. So, I stepped in front of one of the curses."

So very much grief.

Echoing between them, around them.

Sadness. Grief. Pain.

"How?"

Draco shaking his head. "How what?"

"Your torture?"

Though she doesn't want to know, not really, the sickness still in her belly, swirling.

He shook his head again. "No. That doesn't matter. You saw how I was when Severus deposited me to the Burrow. That was weeks of madness followed by a night of punishment."

A pause.

Then tiredness moved in, tiredness and sadness, and it left her weak. Without thought Hermione leaned over and placed her head on Draco's shoulder.

Feeling him tense for a moment before relaxing under her.

"You tried to stop them."

She finally murmured.

"Not for the reasons you believe."

"But you did."

Another pause.

"Because I was going mad, Hermione. Not because they were your parents or because I was thinking about you. Because I was insane at that point."

Another pause.

"But you did." She repeated. Continuing. "Even if it had nothing to do with their identity, you still did it because you did not want it to continue." Another pause. "Because you aren't a killer, Draco."

The last sentence spoken in a whisper.

Barely registering.

An echo. From another time, another place.

Causing a pain so exact, so slicing, in Draco's chest.

And then.

"I have killed people though." A voice spoken in a broken response, so much grief in those words, so very much grief.

Hermione did not raise her head from his shoulder. Instead she reached for the hands on his lap and pulled them towards her, lacing her fingers once more with his.

"But you are not a killer."

She responded. Repeated.

Her hands, her fingers, lacing with his.

Delicate Muggle fingers intertwined with the long aristocrat Pure-bred ones.

Sitting on the kitchen floor in the Burrow.

Moonlight.

Silence. Between them.

But so very much more.

Resting his head on top of hers.

White hair a contrast to the brown curls.


	31. Chapter 31

Slowly focusing, gathering himself, and with the methodical nature of a weaver begins to unravel his wards once more.

Until he is done. Finally. Mind, magic, open, exposed.

Allowing himself a moment. A thought. His fevered head against the cold chill of her hand.

Stilling.

Feeling her magic, the swirling of the shadows, about his, meeting, touching, backing away, meeting, touching once more.

Draco knows what is wrong, knew it as soon as his last thread fell away and her magic threatened in a wave, a dark sea of magic lapping against his own, none of her base magic apparent, the feeling of it, hot, demanding, utterly her's, nowhere in the bleak landscape.

Though he can just make out the chill of the blood magic. Just there. Barely. More of an echo than anything else.

And the compulsion, like a white heat in his chest. At the base of his spine.

And the sea of gray, the sea of shadows, rising up in response to his presence, in response to his own magic, until it is as if a tide moves back and forth between him and the witch lying in front of him.

Their magic.

The thought coming unbidden to his tired mind as he watches the colours behind closed eyelids.

The gray magic is their magic, something they have created, somehow, in some way, but their creation never the less.

The knowledge an acceptance, the long focus a realization.

The irony. Always the irony between them. Always the missed words. The lost thoughts. What is not said, what is implied. Always not quite the truth but not quite a lie either.

Always.

And Potter's words, echoing, circling, in his mind as he looks back at the last month with her, as he looks back at the last ten years, at the years before that, as he looks back. He has never been good for her.

The antithesis.

But to who? To Potter? To Weasley?

To Hermione herself?

And does it really matter?

He raises his head finally, the pain in his neck pronounced from the several hours he spent in that position, scanning her face even as he rubs the point between his eyes with a finger.

She looks no different. Not that he expected her too.

Not when he can tell there is no change just simply by sitting there with her magic swirling about him.

The quiet broken by the sound of the door opening.

"There will be a counsel gathered," the dark voice of Severus wafting towards him.

Draco looks up from Hermione and meets the eyes of his mentor. "Because of what happened with Potter's child?"

Severus nods once. "Yes. Though before you jump to any conclusion, it was not Mr. Potter or Mrs. Potter that said anything. Somehow the information was leaked to the press and there have been several letters of protest to the Ministry. It appears as if this is not the first time something like this has happened, though the first time it escalated to warrant a hospital stay."

A pause and then Severus steps forward, pulling another chair from the wall and sliding into it, leaning slightly forward to pierce his Godson with a gaze. "It appears as if it has grown even more important for the two of you to complete your research on this so an adequate solution can be found."

Draco tearing his eyes away, gut clenched, bitterness a taste on his tongue.

"Of course," he says and the two words are knife sharp in the stillness of the room, looking down at his hands, then at the limp hand of the witch in the hospital bed.

"Of course," he repeats.

A moment. Space of time while both men look down on Hermione.

Then.

"What do you see Draco?" The question tinged with real curiosity.

Draco does not look up from Hermione. Answering after a moment.

"Its not so much what I see as what I feel."

A snort of irritation and Draco can't help but smirk, glancing up at Severus before looking back down.

Continuing because he has no reason not to, because he trusts his Godfather, because feels as if he needs to explain.

Something.

So he explains. "The blood magic feels like a winter's night. Its cold, distinct, silent, a whisper of ice under my finger tips except when it blazes at the point on my chest. The magic is always the same, always feels the same, whether I am around her or not, though when I wear the bloodstone the feeling of it increases, brilliant almost, but always clean. But like a thread, between her and I, always the knowledge of her existence."

A pause. Silence.

"And the other magic? The one in question?" Severus finally asks.

Draco thinks on it. Tries to explain though explanation, words, are not adequate.

"The gray magic, shadow magic, whatever you want to label it, is different, much like a sea, water lapping against the shore or raging against cliffs. It reacts directly to her presence, always."

Draco pauses, realizes at some point he has taken her hand in his own and he holds it gently, a delicate bird in his long fingers.

"Very little calmness, and many more storms," he says, quietly, to himself more to Severus who sits across the bed from him, watching him. The older man's eyes speculative and almost gentle.

"And there is my magic, which I don't have to explain how it feels because it is the same for every wizard and witch, just a knowledge of one's power, but, I can feel her magic too, especially without my wards, in close contact."

A smile, just so very brief, gracing the pale features. "Her magic feels like the breeze off the northern sea."

And then the smile disappearing. "But I can't feel that now. All I can feel is the shadows moving about her and they are calm and steady, but drowning everything else."

And there is sadness in his voice, sadness and something else too.

Acceptance.

Though of what neither man knows.

"And her blood magic?" Severus finally asks.

Draco is looking down at his hands holding her one. "Its there, barely, underneath it."

Another pause.

Then. Severus.

"You realize you are the only one that will be able to help her."

Draco looking up and the older man is stunned by the look on his Godson's face. Realization, pain, but a strange sort of hopelessness too. He does not understand and thinks that perhaps his Godson does not understand either.

But then Draco nods. "I know. I know how to do it too." A smirk. "And I didn't even realize I had the knowledge."

"Absorbing it? Like she did with the Potter child?" Severus asks, and again his voice is curious.

"Yes."

The smirk is gone.

Severus watches the man sitting on the side of the woman. He sees the paleness of his features, the tight skin over cheekbones, eyes the colour of quicksilver. He sees the shoulders clad in black, always clad in black, bowing slightly, not quite as upright, as aristocratic as they normally appear, the white hair mussed.

He sees it.

And understands it.

"You love her?"

The question thrown out. Nonchalantly. Deceptively lazy.

Draco looks up and meets black eyes, meets them and lets his emotions play across his face, in his eyes, lets his mentor see everything.

The only person alive he would dare to do such a thing.

And what Severus sees twists at his gut because all of those fleeting looks, all of those fleeting emotions are there, apparent, no longer fleeting but present. And he sees the acknowledgement of his words, but he also sees the fear, he also sees the pain, the uncertainty, bitterness, a bit of fury, and underneath it, the insecurity, the hopelessness, the sadness, all wrapped with a strange sort of acceptance.

"You do." Severus answers.

And then when Draco does not immediately respond, continues.

"What happened between the two of you?"

The fury, quick, instant, replaced almost immediately by the strange look of tired acceptance.

"I am Draco Malfoy and she is Hermione Granger."

Words. Repeated. Meaning so very, very many things.

"That is not an answer." The voice quiet. Dark.

Draco does not look to him. Instead he is looking absent, staring down but not seeing. Focused. Inwards.

"It is. Always has been." He murmurs. To himself. To the man across from him.

The witch in the bed.

And then he does look to Severus, meeting his gaze. "A Slytherin and a Gryffindor Severus. Two opposites."

Black head shaking slowly. "An excuse."

"No." Draco said. Slight bitterness tingeing. "Reality." A flicker of a smile. "Reality, always reality. The dark and the light, Golden Trio that I effectively destroyed." A pause. Then. "Voldemort would have been so proud."

Severus standing up immediately, anger wrapping about his tall dark form as he stares down at his Godson. "That is utter nonsense. Stupidity Draco. Complete stupidity."

Draco tilts his head slightly. "Perhaps. But it is the truth of the matter and has always been the truth of the matter."

Severus shaking his head, once, twice, dark hair swirling about his features.

"And if you truly believe such a thing and are willing to accept such stupidity then you are not the Malfoy I believed you to be."

Words. Pain. As if the older man had slapped his across the face.

Draco narrowing his eyes, the softness there growing cold. Steel.

"What are you speaking of Severus?"

A snort. In disgust.

"You know very well of what I speak of Malfoy." The last name sneered. "What is this reaction? This feeling sorry for yourself? It is a pathetic excuse for fear."

Draco rising to his feet, letting go of Hermione's hand to face his mentor.

"You know nothing." He says and his voice is chilled, calm, predatory.

One dark eyebrow rising slightly. "No? I know nothing. I have eyes, I have ears, and I have, unlike you, intelligence. I saw what happened ten years ago. I realized the depth of your caring for her even then but I said nothing at all when you left because I believed you had a reason to leave without pursuing your feelings for her and her's for you. I believed it was only a matter of time before you worked out your feelings and pursued her in the nature of your ancestors. However, now I find that you are no more than a coward and a simpering fool."

Another snort of disgust.

"Perhaps you are more like your father than you, or I, would like to admit, and if that is the case, then yes, you truly do not deserve Miss Granger."

And before Draco can say anything, before his wand even has a chance to rise in retaliation, in reaction to the words echoing in the room, Severus is gone, a swirling of black robes and nothing.

Draco staring at the door the older man had disappeared through.

Struggling with breath, with anger, with the rise of his magic, the swirling of about his person. Needing to break, harm, something, anything, needing to tear apart and demolish, deconstruct, ruin.

Smash into a million tiny pieces.

Because he not like his father. He will never be like his father.

And then looking down at the witch in the hospital bed. Looking down and seeing the freckles along her nose, dark eyelashes against pale cheeks, the curls along side her face, the pulse at that point on her neck.

And the anger leaves. Replaced by something else, darker, deeper, a rise of crimson blood and black night.

Understanding.

_A fool?_

_A coward?_

Severus' words echoing cutting, yes, bleeding, yes.

Questions.

And somewhere.

The answer.

_Yes._

Solutions. Explanations.

A coward.

Because of his desire to hold on to the witch in front of him, the woman in front of him, the desire to keep her close, her magic close, to wrap up inside of her and sleep.

To not turn away.

That is why he is coward. Because for ten years he has kept her close, kept the compulsion open because he couldn't, wouldn't let go of it, keeping him, and her as a result, on a tightrope of this magic, this binding between them.

Because he loves her and he can't let her go.

Because he can't let her go.

But knowing he should.

Potter's words revolving around and around in his mind.

_You have always hurt her._

Revolving around and around in his mind.

Remembering the night after the funeral, when he walked away from her and the feeling, the stab of righteousness, the thought that he would keep this, whatever this was, alive, going straight to a jeweler and creating the ring with the blood stone.

An extension of her magic, and his magic.

Their magic.

And wearing it, a daily reminder, a daily feel of her, when he woke up, when he went to bed, when he sat in meetings after meetings, when he was alone in his library.

A memory of her.

A touch of her magic.

Always with him.

_Coward._

Severus' word. One word. So very true.

Because he was too much of a coward to go forward in his life without her.

Because he could not let her go.

Though he was who he was, a Slytherin, a Malfoy, a pureblooded wizard with generations of hatred for people like her running through his blood. Because he had spent his school days taunting her, hating her with his friends, because his father had killed her parents and his aunt had tortured them. Because he had tried to poison her best friend and boyfriend, because he had tried to kill her mentor. Because he had killed people. Innocent people.

Because he had always hurt her.

And he always will.

Because she had dismissed him once, dismissed him again, and because he had not understood.

Understanding now.

Understanding and acceptance. For what was, is, what will be.

Letting go.

And because the boy Slytherin has grown up, because he knows about himself for more than he ever has.

Because he loves Hermione Granger.

And she is who she is, and he is who he is.

And because some things change, but some thing never do.

Decides.

And closes his eyes.

And opens his magic.

And pulls. And pulls.

And the sea of shadows ripples, ripples and stirs, stirs and crescendos, crescendos and creates waves, waves so large, so huge, and he pulls it towards him, pulls.

And pulls.

An orchestra of magic, allowing the blood magic to swirl upwards. Allowing the crimson to interlace with the shadows, intertwining, weaving.

And pulling.

Until he can feel her magic, the awesome brilliance of the wind on his face, salt, sea, wildness, beauty.

Until he can feel it rising upwards from the shadows.

And only when it steadies, only when it is completely exposed does he stop pulling, stops the tide of waves, lets the shadows draw back, rippling and then silence, blood magic falling to a thrum in his head, chest, at the base of his spine.

Then he opens his eyes. Looking down on her, seeing the normalcy of her.

And he smiles.

A true smile.

Of beauty. Life. Acceptance.

And leans down to touch her lips with his own, a feather kiss, tasting of salt, of the sea.

"I will free you, my love."

A gift. True.

Words barely said, a breath against the skin of her cheek.

Before he straightens and leaves the room.


	32. Chapter 32

It's like breathing after not being able to

Ripples of water, magic, thought. Ripples, a tide pool, swirling about and somewhere she is lost in that tide pool, struggling to breath, clawing her way upwards, and then…

She is not.

Her head is above it. Free of it.

Pressure gone.

Breathing.

With great gulps of air, of magic.

Awareness, before she opens her eyes.

The feel of lips across her own.

The sound of a voice, so achingly familiar, saying words she does not understand. Words her mind does not yet have the capability of understanding.

Opening, struggling, opening her eyes to see no one and wondering, all the while trying to make sense of everything, wondering if the words were real.

If the kiss was real.

Not knowing.

Not knowing anything.

The door opens to allow entrance to a mediwitch and a mediwizard, immediately at her side, faces concerned, as their wands start moving over her body, and after them, Minerva, Harry and George.

Stopping, as they see her looking at them, as they watch the diagnostic spells moving above her.

"What happened?" Hermione finally manages, past the feel of sandpaper in her throat.

The mediwizard hands her a glass of water. She sips it gratefully.

"We would like to ask you that same question," the older man says, looking down at her in professional curiosity, his light brown eyes kind.

Hermione hands the water back to the mediwizard and looks again at the trio at the door, shaking her head slowly. "I don't understand."

Minerva takes a step into the room, coming towards her. "You passed out, my child. You've been unconscious for almost eight hours."

Hermione remembers, suddenly, distinctly, and her gaze immediately seeks out and finds Harry's.

"Lily?"

She wonders at the flash of guilt, horror, on her Harry's face before being replaced by nothing.

He answers.

"Lily is fine. They are releasing her in an hour."

As if a weight is lifted from her chest Hermione instantly feels better, freer and she nods. "Good."

Harry opens his mouth to say something and Hermione catches the look that George is suddenly glaring into the back of his brother-in-law's head, but before another word is said the mediwitch turns and gestures with her hands.

"Please leave us for a moment. We need to examine her."

Harry hesitates, just a moment, but Minerva is turning and when she does, Harry follows suit.

George does not immediately follow, scanning her face with concerned eyes, a look she knows she has given him many times before.

She smiles in reassurance.

He catches her eye, his blue ones soft, then flashes her a smile and also turns.

All three disappear once more from the room.

Hermione looks away from the absent door to where the two medical professionals are looking down on her. She shifts in her bed, a dull throb at the back of her head making it so her vision swirls about for a moment before settling.

"What happened?" She repeats, focusing on the woman.

The man answers.

"We are not entirely sure to be honest. We were hoping you would be able to answer some of our questions."

Hermione settles. "Are you speaking of what I did with Lily Potter?"

The mediwitch waves her wand about Hermione even as she answers. "Partially. Mr. Snape said that you transferred her magic somehow? I was not there but from all accounts it took an hour and then afterwards you fainted."

Hermione dimly remembers Severus by her side and she feels a flush of embarrassment at the thought that he saw her faint.

She still very much does not like weakness.

The mediwizard continues. "So, that is what happened? You transferred magic?"

Hermione answers. "Yes. A rather base way of describing it, but yes."

The mediwizard leans slightly forward and Hermione is uncomfortably aware of his magic and she wonders briefly, just a thought, why it is she can even feel his magic.

"Can you explain how you accomplished that?" He asks.

Hermione shakes her head slowly, thinking on it. "I really can't." A pause. "I just can."

The mediwitch nods her head. "Well, that actually makes quite a bit of sense. Magic is not easily defined nor explained; it would make sense that this is the case here also. But Miss Granger, you were completely comatose a few moments ago, your magic was responding very strangely, but now it appears as if there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, well besides a slight headache it appears."

The memory of a kiss.

The memory of words.

She isn't sure of the reality of them.

And shakes her head slowly.

"I can't tell you." She says.

And it's the truth.

She can't say. She has no recollection of anything beyond the last moment before she fell to unconsciousness.

And the dim memory of something she isn't sure happened.

And the feeling of drowning.

Hermione is released at the same time that Lily Potter is, and with George's protective arm about her, she finds herself at the Potter's.

"Now Hermione, I want you to take a few days off to rest," Minerva says as she follows them out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

Hermione turns in the protective hold of George and looks on the Headmistress.

"I am fine, Minerva. I feel a little shaky and a bit of a headache but I can most assuredly teach classes tomorrow."

The stern older witch shakes her head once. "I won't hear of that. You take the rest of the week and I will cover for you."

Guilt, moving across Hermione's face as if it were water. She leans into the tall, warm form of George.

Minerva put a hand up. "I don't want to hear another word. That is an order, Hermione."

George's arm tightening about her shoulders, whether in agreement or in warning, Hermione doesn't know, but it's enough, the two of them, as well as the guilt still radiating from Harry, for her to nod her head.

"Of course, Minerva. But no more than this week."

The Headmistress gave her a small smile and nodded at George before disappearing back into the kitchen to Floo to Hogwarts.

"All right, Mione?" George asks quietly.

Hermione turns and looks up at George, catching the brilliant blue of his eyes, concern warring with something else that she does not want to analyze.

She slowly nods. "Yes. Just tired."

"To bed then," George says brightly, if a little too brightly.

Hermione wishes that she could go her own bed but knows that there will be a fight if she suggests such a thing so she allows George to steer her to the Potter's spare bedroom. She is not surprised to find a small bag with personal things sitting on the bed and knows that Ginny, at some point, had made sure to get her things for her.

Making the argument of going back to her own bed an even more futile one.

George moves so he can give her a full hug and Hermione leans into him again, placing her head against his chest, letting the tiredness fall into her bones as she closes her eyes for a moment.

Safety. Warmth.

A man who has been there for her.

But words, said, not said, and a cold chill at the base of her spine, war with her desire to find peace in him.

George places his chin on top of her head; when he speaks she can feel the flicker of breath of her hair. "You scared us, Hermione."

He says this quietly but just slightly tinged with something else.

Anger.

Hermione does not open her eyes.

"I am sorry."

She says quietly. Though she isn't, not really, and would do it again if she had to.

A testament to the years, again, to the knowledge that George has of the witch, to many things. He laughs and hugs her tight before letting her go and stepping away.

She looks up at him and grins slightly.

"I am." She repeats.

George shakes his head. "Though it wouldn't make it so you wouldn't do it again."

A slight shrug.

Another laugh. Another hug.

"I would have been there by your side the entire time but I had to go and take care of some urgent business. I am sorry I wasn't there when you woke up."

Hermione, remembering.

She tightens her arms about him.

"It's fine, George. I don't know what happened, the professionals don't know what happened, so let's just be thankful that it appears as if everything is going to be ok."

A smile, against the side of her head.

She just barely feels it.

"The same Hermione, always the same Hermione," he says and in his voice gentleness and so much warmth.

And then a throat clearing from the doorway.

George does not release her from the latest hug, instead just turning his head. Hermione does the same, feeling secure, feeling safe, in the arms about her.

Harry is watching them with an amused expression on his face.

Though Hermione can immediately feel his magic, like she could with the mediwizard, a throbbing, and in it, unhappiness, guilt, and still, ever so slightly, anger.

George releases her again, looking down on her and kissing the tip of her nose.

Hermione smiles as something tightens in her gut. For some reason, some unknown and unanalyzed reason, sadness moves through her, wraps around her.

Though George has already turned away and does not see it.

"I'll go check on Ginny and Lily," George says and then it is just the two of them.

Friends.

Hermione does not meet Harry's green eyes, instead she turns and takes the bag from the bed, depositing it on the floor before sitting down on the pink and blue quilt.

"He loves you, you know." Harry says quietly.

For a moment, the briefest of moments Hermione thinks he is talking about someone else, something else, and her stomach floats, drops, tightens, before her mind catches up and she knows he speaks of George.

Hermione smiles gently, slightly. "And I love him," she responds, though she still does not meet Harry's gaze.

She looks up when she hears the door closed, watching the tall, dark-haired man walk over to the overstuffed chair in the corner.

It is also pink and blue, to match the quilt and the curtains at the windows.

Hermione sees these details, because she does not want to see what is going across her friend's face. What his expression is.

"But," Harry finally says.

Hermione looks down at her fingers. Looks down on them and remembers how they looked intertwined with another set of fingers, long fingers graced with a red stone.

And the feel of lips.

And the sound of his voice.

"There is always a but." She says, not looking up.

Her magic swirling about her, in reaction to her words, in reaction to Harry's magic. But it's not overwhelming and it's not too much. Clarity.

Just. In her magic.

Silence between them. Silence. History. Memories.

She knows Harry does not understand. She knows that she will never be able to explain.

"I shouldn't have let you do that." He finally says.

Hermione smiles, another smile, slightly off, slightly soft, gentle, wise, knowing, as she finally meets the brilliant green eyes of Harry Potter.

The green is a swirl with emotion. So many emotions that she can't actually read them all, even if she had wanted to.

A slight grimace, alongside his face. "Of course, that wouldn't have stopped you."

"Not in the least." Her immediate reply.

And then anger. She sees it spark in his eyes, along his jaw line, in the clenching of a fist. "Bloody hell, Mione. Why are you always throwing yourself in danger to save me?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow at that.

Harry gets up from the chair and starts pacing the room, long strides, three steps to one wall, three steps to the other, repeat.

She watches him. Watches him and allows the anger to flow around her. Knowing because she knows him that this is not only about Lily, that this is about ten years ago, about memories, about their lifetime together.

So she stays silent.

Watching him. Recalling the way he was fifth year, so angry, anger to hide the uncertainty.

She feels a stab of love, so absolute, so real, falling across her, through her.

But she stays still and watches him pace.

Three strides one way and three strides the other.

Until he stops in front of her and crouches low on his knees so his face is level with hers, and in his face is sadness, pain, and horrible, horrible guilt.

"Why, Hermione?" He asks and his voice is broken.

She places her hands on either side of Harry's face, his cheek scruffy under her palms. "Because that is what I do, Harry." She speaks the truth and her words echo with it.

But Harry refuses to listen, not yet. "That's not an answer, Mione." He says quietly.

Hermione smiles. "Of course it is. You are my brother, Harry, not in blood, but in every other way, you are my family, closer to me than anyone else, and because of that I would do anything for you and for your family. I do what I do because I love you, and I love Ginny, and Lily, and little Ronald and Fred."

Harry, searching her eyes with his own.

"You don't do this out of guilt?"

He says.

If Hermione was once the girl she was and not the woman she's become, she would have blown up at the sound of the words, at the insult that is not there but sounds as if it were.

But she is that woman so instead she shakes her head. "No, not out of guilt."

A pause.

Green eyes searching.

And then.

"Not even over Ron's death."

Coldness. Creeping into her, up through her hands against Harry's cheeks, around her throat.

She drops her hands and the smile falls away.

Remembering.

Remembering.

A flash of green. An instant of death.

A decision.

Not known, not until after it was all ready made.

"Why did you say that?" Hermione says, finally, barely, around a swollen throat, around the blood in her ears.

But instead of answering, instead of explaining, Harry asks her another question.

"What happened between you and Malfoy?"

Blood roaring, roaring, mind numbing, tired, so tired, guilt, heavy, weighing her down. Pressing down, down, down.

"What do you mean?" She asks, says, pleads, words barely a whisper, wondering, why, why is he asking, why now?

And a pair of green eyes searching.

Pinning her.

Searching.

"Was there something going on between the two of you, Hermione? Is there?"

And Hermione, backtracking, flinging herself away, not physically, but mentally, tearing her eyes away from Harry's, looking down at her hands, her magic gathering about her.

All three magics, gathering about her.

Guilt. The taste of it like bile in her throat, on her tongue, at the back of her teeth.

Bile.

And then a hand, Harry's hand, taking her own and she looks down at it, looks down on their fingers and she remembers other fingers, and a desire, a wish, a hope, rising up.

Wondering.

If she had never done that. If she had never done what she did.

If she had never felt the way she had.

If she and Harry would be sitting in this room.

Or if they would be dead.

"Tell me, Hermione." The voice gentle but demanding, and somewhere underneath it, pleading.

Denial on her lips.

On her tongue.

Until she looks up from their hands and into the green eyes of her best friend.

And denial falling away.

Replaced by nothing.

And nothing is bitter.

Because there is still anger in those green eyes, anger, and something like accusation. And everything is very complicated, so very shadowed, so very unclear.

Always, always, so very chaotic.

Letting her fingers slip from Harry's, breaking away her gaze, standing up, leaving, a part of her wants to just leave, but instead of the door, going to the window, the cool glass, the winter's afternoon.

Placing a palm there. Just there.

The coldness lacing through her fingers, up her skin, around her wrists.

Anchoring.

Hearing Harry move from his crouch, knowing he sits himself on the bed, towards her, looking on her.

Coldness. She leans forward and place her cheek against the glass, closing her eyes.

The swirl of magic behind her eyelids clear, precise, strong.

Brilliant colours.

Shadowed.

Tinged with red.

Memories.

"I felt a connection to him," she finally says, quietly, words spoken in the silence of the room. Continuing. "The night he showed up at the Burrow and he was close to insane, I felt something of his insanity and later, when he was better, when he could speak, I would listen to him, the same boy we knew in school but different too, and it was as if he was always speaking to me."

A smile, against the glass, against the cold.

"Silly really, but then, I have always been silly about things I believed needed my help."

A harsh intake of breath. Slow outtake.

"He never needed your help, Hermione."

The voice of a politician.

Hermione does not even respond to it, instead she focuses on the colours behind her eyes, on them swirling about her. Pulling on them, gathering them.

She continues.

"The first time we actually had a conversation was when you and Ron were out playing Quidditch with everyone. He couldn't yet, his leg was not all the way healed. I remember thinking he is going to do nothing but complain all morning about not being able to fly, complain, and whine, what he always was like, what he always did, but he didn't. I could tell he was bitter, I could almost taste it on the air, but he never once said a word." A smile, at the memory, of the boy with the brilliant white hair staring out the window, then back at his book, then out the window, and how she had watched him from lowered eyelashes from she sat.

Continuing.

"Anyway, he was reading something on Arithmancy and he asked me a question, I don't remember it now, just some random question. You know me, the know-it-all, and so I explained it. Before I knew it our conversation had stretched to hours and the lot of you were coming back in. I realized then that I had just spent three hours talking with Draco Malfoy without once trading an insult."

Opening her eyes then, pulling away from the glass, though she keeps her palm against it, anchoring, even as she looks out to the scene outside.

The winter's afternoon.

And smiles because it is ironically appropriate.

Continuing.

"He's smart, Harry, very smart, smarter than me in some things, intuitive, so when you and Ron were off, playing chess or Quidditch or whatever it is you two did alone, I talked with him. We talked about everything, Horcruxes, how to destroy them, where they were, battle plans, the latest Death Eater meeting he went to, his training with Severus, Order business, but other things too, the latest potions research, if we would ever be able to finish our seventh year, gossip about everyone in the Order." Another smile, though this one more of a wry twist to the lips than anything. "I suppose it was because no one talked with him but me, and because no one talked to me about those things but him."

A snort. And a stab from Harry's magic.

"You could have talked to us."

Words that Hermione knew were coming.

Turning her head to look at Harry, his face scowling, reminiscent to another time and a younger Harry.

"I know, Harry, I do. But you had so much to deal with, so much stress, and really Harry, would you have wanted to talk about school, about potions, with me?"

She says this question gently, very gently, and is not surprised when Harry looks slightly embarrassed. Just slightly.

Hermione continues, staring at Harry, back against the window, leaning against it, supporting her.

She can feel the chill through her robes.

Continuing.

"And then we realized that your scar was the last Horcrux, and suddenly it became very important to find a solution so that we could both destroy it but keep you alive, and in a state that you could fight Voldemort."

Harry wincing at her words.

And then paling as she continues.

"That is when Severus was given the book, when the spell was introduced. Draco and I worked on that spell, worked through it, again and again, while you and Ron were finding the last Horcrux, the cup, remember? And that led us to the conclusion that it was the only way."

A bitter laugh. Bitterness.

Hermione knows what it tastes like, even as it comes from Harry's mouth.

"Did you even look for another way?" The question harsh, caustic.

Hermione narrowing her eyes, this time in irritation, true irritation.

"Honestly, Harry, do you think I wanted to die? Do you think I would have done that spell if I had not looked for any other way, absolutely any other way to do what needed to be done."

A snort.

Anger, irritation for anger and irritation.

"I bet Malfoy didn't help you with that. Probably was fine with the outcome of the spell."

And suddenly Hermione's anger is cold, chilled, about her, and she stares at Harry with ice in her gaze.

Causing Harry to sit a little straighter, hand reaching for his wand, though neither realise he does this.

"You're wrong, Harry."

Memories. Memories.

Of the hopeless feeling in her stomach as she'd finished the calculations, as she had looked up at Draco standing against the library window, as he had turned and saw her look. Memories, of his reaction as she explained it, at the tightening of his jaw, of those grey eyes hardening, of the fury suddenly, ripping the book out of her hands and throwing it across the room, of him taking her wrists so harshly they bruised and telling her that they would not do this, that there was absolutely no fucking way they would do this.

Memories.

That she tells Harry in her cold voice.

"And he looked, we looked, Harry. We spent three almost sleepless weeks looking for another solution, but there was none, Harry, nothing that would compare to this field, this dimension of magic."

A pause. In the narrative. In the silence of the room.

Hermione standing against the cold glass.

Chilling.

Anchoring.

And then Harry slowly slouching back in his chair, shoulders dropping as his hand falls away from his wand. Closing his eyes.

Hermione watches him.

Suddenly wary, suddenly unsure, the anger falling away and replaced by something else.

Harry opens his eyes, the green there tired, accepting but tired. Too many years on a man so young.

_How can we feel this old and still be this young?_

The question, circling about her mind. A question she used to ask almost every day ten years prior.

A question that has never gone away.

"What happened?" Harry asks finally.

Hermione tilts her head, curls falling about her face.

"What do you mean?"

Harry waves his hand, "What happened between you and Draco? Why is it that every time I see you two together it is as if you are about to either kill each other or jump each other?"

The question is startling, not only because of the question itself but because of Harry's observation.

"The compulsion, the binding," Hermione finally answers. Slowly.

Buying time, though she doesn't realize she is doing it.

Harry shakes his head. "No. It is more than that. I know what a binding feels like, what a compulsion feels like and besides, if it was truly the compulsion, the binding, you would have not spent the last ten years running away from it." A pause. "Running away from him."

Coldness.

Hermione thinks.

Placing her hands against the window, palm against the chill, though she does not turn away from Harry's gaze.

Wondering, somewhere distant, at the back of her mind, why she always forgets how intuitive Harry truly is.

Harry continuing.

"I know it isn't that anyway." A smile, pained. "I might not be brilliant, or even overly smart, but I remember the looks between the two of you even before the spell. That last night, before the battle, leaving the room, I remember the way you hugged me, and hugged Ron, but you were already gone, your gaze never once leaving Draco. I had noticed it before then, how you couldn't sleep and eat when he went with Severus to one of those meetings, how you would wait up for him until they came back, and I remember that night, how you looked when Severus brought him in. Maybe no one else did, but Hermione, I remember the terror on your face, and how you didn't even flinch when he called you a Mudblood."

A pause.

A tilting of a dark head.

"So. What happened? There was something there between the two of you. So, why have you been running away from him for the last ten years?"

Again.

On her tongue to lie. The deceptive words pushing against her teeth. Denial. There is beauty in it. There is innocence in it.

Naivety.

But it has been a very long time since Hermione was naïve.

And Harry is waiting for an answer.

So meeting his eyes, across the room, she tells him the truth.

"Because I killed Ron by saving Draco."

And the white cold heat in her chest is brilliant in its precision.


	33. Chapter 33

_"Miserere mei, Deus: secundum magnam misericordiam tuam."_

_trans. "__Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy steadfast love; according to thy abundant mercy blot out my transgressions." __Psalm 51_

"Because I killed Ron by saving Draco."

The white cold heat in her chest is brilliant in its precision.

Harry looking on her in surprise, in confusion.

Hermione turning away from him then, turning away, and leaning her head against the cold glass once more.

Remembering.

The smell of blood.

The smell of burnt trees. Of burnt grass.

The sound of screaming.

Flashes of spells, of people dying about her.

Insanity. In the air she breathed, in the way it burnt her lungs, her throat. Even if she had wanted to, her screams would have been lost. Lost in the destruction happening around her.

Dying about her.

Breathing it in. The stench.

And her focus arrested on the wizard who stood across from her, eyes focused on her eyes, making them out, even across the field from her.

Draco standing behind Harry, who was facing the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

Facing him and battling him. Though it all took place within their minds.

Between them, inside of them, and Hermione could not tell what was really taking place.

Only knowing it was taking place. Finally.

Just.

Finally.

Taking place in the field that she and Draco maintained. A focus, grey eyes and brown meeting over the distance, their wands trembling outwards, under the strain, under the reek of war.

And she remembers.

How Draco's magic felt about her, and how her magic responded, even as people fell about them. Even as Severus, as Ron, as Tonks, Minerva, so many others, fought about them, protecting them, somehow still feeling a level of comfort, of safety, of hope, in their magic.

In the field that they created.

And the coldness, the frigid nature of the spell wrapping around her. She felt it, their binding, like coming home, a wonderful peace throughout her being, through her magic.

In their magic. Her and Draco's.

Even as people died about her.

And the look between them, speaking so much, volumes of words never spoken, of the night they spent together, of a future they believed they would never get to share.

Even as people died about them.

Even as she saw a slashing spell against Tonks, even as she saw Fred go rigid in death, falling to the ground.

Even as blood wept, fell to the earth, and soaked the ground in red.

Looking out the window ten years later, she places her hand against the glass and she tells Harry at that moment, she was ready to die, she was alright with it.

Because she had been. A sacrifice like those sacrificed around her, around them, a greater purpose, and suddenly just then it was alright, just then, everything made sense.

Logical.

A clarity. Blinding in its beauty.

Sharing it with the man who was connected with her, with her magic, with her mind, with the history between them, and only then did she feel a stab of sorrow to know too late what she felt for him, to know that it was too late.

And he had smiled, across from her, had smiled amidst the death about them, and in his smile she saw joy.

Saw joy.

For a moment.

Love. In the lines of his face.

Hermione had closed her eyes then, giving herself up to what would be, allowing her magic and his to fill her, a swirling of colours, brilliant even in their darkness, brilliant even in their intent, and she felt it swirling up in her.

Not noticing when a stray spell cut through her arm, slicing it, not feeling another catch her on her shoulder, not realising that she had fallen to her knees.

Maintaining a focus. On her. On Draco.

And opening her eyes to see that Draco had also been hit, somehow, somewhere, and he was also kneeling on the ground, one arm useless at his side, shirt in strips about his person, but his wand steady.

His wand steady, pointed towards her, just as hers was pointed towards him.

Another curse.

Another slice of pain across her back.

But they had a greater purpose. A greater purpose.

And they maintained the focus.

A slash across Draco's face, his cheek, blood coursing down the white skin.

And still they maintained a focus.

Sharing in the moment. Sharing in the knowledge that finally, just finally, they were doing what was right, true.

A bigger moment.

And they would die together.

Hermione knew it even though he never said the words. Knew he would not live because she would not live.

And it ached at her heart.

And glowed brilliant.

Clarity.

Even as the sky lit with green, with yellows, with purples. The colours of death. Spells cast about them.

Sharing.

Until Harry stumbled back. One step, another step, and suddenly their focus was on him, on the Boy-Who-Lived, on the hero, a focus.

Her arm wavering, strength leaving, seeping away under the stress of the magic, under the effort to keep her mind off the pain moving through her body. Watching in wonder, in hope, as Harry took another step back, another step back, her gaze moving to the evil in front of them, seeing it, seeing Voldemort's magic falling away, seeing it, the darkness falling away under Harry's light.

The moment. Emblazed in her mind.

The moment that Voldemort fell and screams filled the air. Death Eaters clutching at their arms, their person.

The moment that everything became even clearer. More brilliant. Magnified.

In slow motion.

Seeing Draco across from her. Seeing the blood against his face and thinking it looked black even in the light of day. Watching as he lowered his wand. Felt it as she lowered hers. Watching. Waiting. Meeting his eyes. Seeing pain there, his hand coming down to the mark at his arm.

But he had not looked away. Not looked away from her.

Redemption.

Everything in slow motion.

Remembering how his eyes had turned to quicksilver, soft, gentle; even from where she knelt, across the space, she could tell their colour. How his hair had looked almost the same colour of silver, catching the light from the spells cast about them still.

Remembering.

How the pain had come then. How suddenly, just then, she could feel the blood running down her back, down her arms, and how she knelt on the ground, a ground soggy from melted snow, soggy from blood.

Noticing, slowly, that Death Eaters were dying now, fighting, dying, or falling to their knees themselves. Turning her head to see Severus, wary, a tall form with slouched shoulders, but still casting spells, seeing Ron next to him, brilliant red head amidst the darkness.

Seeing Minerva. Remus. Tonks.

Standing.

But others were not. Others on the ground.

Death. Soaking the ground. Soaking the earth.

Death.

And turning away, as if in slow motion. Turning away to look back to Draco. To share with him the moment. To smile. To give him something of herself.

Turning away, but seeing out of the corner of her eye, seeing a Death Eater clad in black, mask still in place, seeing the Death Eater raise his wand. Pointed at the brilliant red head of Ron. Ron who was turned the other way, fighting a different Death Eater.

The wand pointed at the back of Ron's head.

Slow motion.

Moments.

Seeing it. Raising her wand.

A shielding spell. The words on her tongue.

And then.

Slow. Slow.

The scream. Inhuman. A soulless being. The feel of the world narrowing to a single point, the chill, forbidden chill.

And looking up.

Slow motion.

Slow.

Slow.

Looking up and seeing a dementor.

One of the last Dementors, falling, falling, swiftly, and seeing.

Seeing.

Slow. Moments.

Seeing that Draco would not be able to get his wand up in time. Would not be able to stop the dementor, seeing it.

Moments.

Without thought.

Without thought.

Her Patronus had shot from her wand, her mind screaming, body screaming, even as it erupted, so strong, so complete, stopping the Dementor.

Destroying it.

Only to have the light fade away.

Only to have her look then. Just then.

And see a red head. A red head against the dark earth.

Motionless.

And something breaking. Something shattering as the realisation of what she had just done, of what her actions meant, falling through her, dropping her wand. Seeing. And not wanting to. Understanding but not wanting to.

_Please. No. No. Gods no._

_Please._

_Please. No._

Stumbling to her feet.

_No. No._

Stumbling to her feet, falling to her knees, legs not able to hold her up, pushing herself up, crawling, through mud, through blood.

_Gods no._

Struggling to her feet again.

Falling.

And a scream.

Tearing through her gut, out of her throat, but no sound, no sound had came, and she hadn't been able to get to him. His fallen body.

Seeing, even as Severus moved to stand above the body. Still cursing Death Eaters, standing over, protecting.

Hysteria tearing at her, clawing at her. Because she didn't understand why Severus would be protecting him. Why?

Because he was dead.

He was bloody dead.

And she couldn't get to him. Couldn't get to him.

Body not moving. Not responding.

Pain. But it didn't matter. Didn't matter.

_No._

Around and around in her head. Over and over again.

Seeing. Not seeing.

Feeling. Not feeling.

The spells dying about her. All the dying.

And the smell of death.

And the feel of death.

Red against the dark mud.

And the sudden silence. The moment after battle. The barest second of time when the war is done, when all is accomplished.

Silence. A mere breathe of silence.

And she was on her knees.

On her knees. Head bowed.

Tears falling.

And a hand. A hand, a magic, pulling her, about her, a magic. Falling into a chest, into arms, into coldness. Seeing. Not seeing. The pain making everything hazy, her mind not making sense, her thoughts not making sense.

Seeing, not seeing.

Hearing as someone said something. As someone answered.

As people moved about her.

As another pair of arms replaced the first. As she was lifted. Unable to think. Pain. So much pain.

Seeing. Not seeing.

As Arthur found Ron, as Molly started screaming, first Fred, then Ron.

Screaming.

Like Hermione wanted to.

Closing her eyes and letting her head fall on a black clad shoulder.

And as Harry went to his best friend, stumbling to his best friend's body, his cry of protest rising to the air, as Molly lamented over the death of her children, as the living Death Eaters were arrested, carried off, as people mourned and wailed, as the dirt soaked up the blood of the battle.

As Severus carried Hermione off the battlefield, Draco stumbling alongside of them, two wands in his hands, blood pouring down in his face.

As Hermione let the pain fall over her in a sheet of darkness, knowing, then, just then, that nothing would be alright ever again.

Snow began to fall.


	34. Chapter 34

Harry's reaction is not what Hermione thinks it would be.

"He was there." Harry says simply from where he sits on the bed.

Hermione looks away from the window.

She's faced the window through the entire story. To not look at his face. To not see the horror there, the sickness she knows, just knows, will be along the side of his mouth, his jaw, in the green of his eyes.

To keep her palm anchored on the cold of the glass.

As she turns and looks, she meets brilliant green eyes with her own. Green eyes that swim in tears, in pain, but not in horror.

Not in disgust. Not in hatred or accusation.

Something tears at her gut. Rips the soft underbelly in shreds of flesh and she puts the freezing palm up to her mouth to stop the gasp of her own pain. To stem its existence.

Not understanding. Expecting a different face. A different look then the one on his face.

Harry says it again.

"He was there."

She lets her hand drop from her mouth, clenching it at her side, fingernails in her palm.

To focus on another pain.

She doesn't know what Harry is speaking of, and in a flash of incoherent thought she wonders if he means Ron. And if he means Ron, he was where?

But that is not what he means and he clarifies.

"When you fainted, Snape was the one who caught you; he said to get Malfoy. Minerva and I left to go get him from Hogwarts, but the funny thing was, Malfoy was already there, even before we got out of the ward he was walking to the room." A dark head tilted slightly, looking on Hermione in thought.

"He knew there was something wrong."

Hermione watches Harry's eyes as he says this. Watches the green swim with ill-concealed tears. Watches his mouth speak the words.

She doesn't understand why he is telling her this. His voice serious, the smile he gives her more of a grimace than anything at all, tears in his eyes.

She wonders.

Though still, at the back of her mind is the distinct but faint memory of lips and words she doesn't know are reality. Maybe that is what Harry is speaking of. But why does it matter? Why is this Harry's reaction after everything she just said?

After the story.

She expected a different reaction. Any other reaction.

Hermione studies Harry's face, looking for something but not exactly sure what she is looking for.

"The bond," she finally says after a moment. "I'm sure he felt something through the bond."

Harry nods. A hand coming up quickly, across his cheek, a bit of moisture having fallen.

Another sob. Clawing at her throat. Not understanding. Confused.

"Maybe it was. But you didn't see his eyes Hermione."

Still not sure where this is going. Still not sure what this has to do with what she told Harry. Wondering where the anger is, wondering where the accusations are.

Harry continuing. "His eyes were crazed with worry, with pain; he barely saw Minerva and I before he brushed pass us. He was so focused on getting to you that he barely saw we were there."

The information does not surprise her. Not in the least, knowing, remembering, even as she started the process with Lily's magic, wondering, if Draco would be affected by it.

But she still doesn't understand the connection and some of that must have shown in her face because Harry smiles then, a smile tinged with sadness and something else. Something age old and indefinable.

He puts a hand out, as if entreating her to listen, to understand. "Don't you see, Mione? If he could feel that, all the way from where he was, then of course you acted in the way you did on the battle field. You had no choice."

Shaking his head slowly, he allowed his hand to drop. "Minerva said Malfoy was at Hogwarts. She said that a couple of students found him on the floor in the middle of a passageway almost unconscious. Poppy backed up the story. He was almost unconscious, Hermione, just because of what you were doing. So if he could feel that, and react in that way, and know what kind of danger you were in, then it only makes sense that you would be effected in a similar manner. Of course you saved his life. Your reaction was probably more instinctive then anything else."

Hermione starts to cry. Silent tears, not wracking sobs, nor overwhelming grief, but the slow trickle of moisture down her cheeks.

"But Ron."

She struggles to say, the name acidic on her tongue.

"Died protecting you." Harry says shortly, but softly, almost gently.

A fist. At her mouth, holding in the tears then, in the grief. Control, so much control, for the last ten years, so much control.

Harry watches her from the bed, watches her with those emerald eyes, with compassion and something close to pity.

"I wish you would have told me sooner." He finally says. Again, quietly. Gently.

Hermione shakes her head. Almost violently.

"Harry, don't you understand? It was my fault that Ron died. My fault. I could have saved him. I could have cast that shield charm and he would have not died."

Harry nods; this time there is a touch of impatience in his expression.

"Yes, and I could have saved Cedric."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest but Harry continues.

"And I could have saved Ginny from Tom's diary, and I could have saved Fred, and I could have saved Ron. Do you want me to keep going, because there is also Dumbledore, there is Cho, there are so many people that died because I did not kill Voldemort sooner, because I did not defeat him sooner then I did." A bitter laugh. "Really, Hermione, do you want to compare notes because I think - at least in this - I have you beat."

Hermione looks on Harry with something like shock, something like sadness, something very close to shame.

She slowly sinks to the floor, her back against the wall, pulling her legs to her chest, arms around them.

Harry continues.

"You saved Draco, Hermione, and though it might appear as if you chose him over Ron, did you really have a choice?" A pause. A moment. And then, again the gentle tone, the tone of someone who has seen much, done much, and lives with it every day. "In the end, Hermione, you still saved a life."

"The wrong life." Her words, out of her mouth before she can stay them.

She is not looking at Harry. She is looking at where her hands clasp around her legs.

She can feel the sudden tightening of the air around her, the sudden flash of Harry's magic.

When he finally answers his words are harsh. "Do you really think that? Is life really that trivial to you that you would feel one is better than another?"

His words like a slap across her face, Hermione instantly feels her cheeks flood with blood, with colour.

Shame.

She does not look up.

Harry continues. Harsh. His tone grated, his magic almost violent though held in check.

"Because from I understand, it would have meant more than one life had you chosen differently. Who's to say that if Malfoy had died you would not also have died? And if you had died, then who would have saved Lily last night? If Draco had died, who have saved you today?"

Hermione finally looks up from her hands and meets the gaze of her long time friend.

She winces when she sees disappointment there.

"A life, Hermione. You saved a life, an in doing so, you probably saved more than just one." His gaze softens just then. If only slightly. "Don't get me wrong, Mione. I wish almost every day that Ron was still here with us, but I would never wish someone else dead just to have him back."

A moment where the two life-long friends meet eyes across a room, magic swirling about them, history swirling about them, knowledge of who they are and who they were.

Knowledge of themselves.

Hermione smiles. It is a wry smile, a twist of her lips and she shakes her head with it.

"When did you become so wise?" She says the words quietly. Barely a whisper. Amusement, yes, sadness, even more so.

And under that, shame.

At her words.

At her actions.

For the last ten years.

Lost time.

"When I had to." Comes the reply, and she knows it's the truth.

They sit there for several moments. Harry looking on the witch he has loved for such a very long time, his heart aching for her - for the pain he sees in her face, for the shame he knows colours her cheeks, for the way her shoulders droop underneath her robes as if a great weight was pressing down on them.

He understands that feeling, those feelings. He has been intimate with them on one too many occasions.

Hermione finally looks up at him, meeting his gaze and she smiles slightly again. More of a true smile then before, though the emotions are still there for all to see.

He feels his heart contract at the smile. At the pain he knows she's been in.

And something nags at his thought.

Something that he finally puts into words.

"Do you love him?"

Another flush, a different kind this time, moving over her cheekbones, across her nose.

"Who?"

Harry smirks. A true smirk, teasing, along the side of his mouth.

"Snape." He says, dryly. "Come on, Hermione. Don't be daft."

Hermione looks away. Back down to her knees.

"I don't know," she says after a moment. A moment where she desperately wants to think of the right answer but is not able to. So very many things circling about her mind. Now, then, so very many things.

She leans her chin on her knees, staring at the bedpost, not looking at Harry, but not really in the room either.

Thinking.

Speaking.

"I did," she says. "I think. I don't really know. It was so fast, all that time, and looking back sometimes I just think it was the nature of the time. He changed so fast; over six months he changed so much and I think I got caught up in the whirlwind of it."

A pause. Harry waits and when Hermione does not start again he shakes his head.

"It might seem like the change was fast, but it makes sense. I mean, to have your very foundation rocked, everything you ever believed in spread out before you in all its gruesome loathsome detail, for anyone with half intelligence and a heart would be horrified, and we both know Malfoy is more than just half intelligent…"

He trails off and Hermione smiles slightly.

"And he does have a heart" she says quietly, to herself more to Harry.

Though Harry agrees with her, his own memories with the Slytherin come to play before him. He can still see the pale-haired boy crying in the bathroom during sixth year, can still see the way he looked when he came back from some of the Death Eater raids, even though Malfoy never said anything, and tried very hard to not show his thoughts to anyone but Snape.

But Harry doesn't say this to the witch in front of him. Instead he stays silent. Waiting for her.

When she doesn't though he prompts her once more.

"You did love him?"

She looks up, looks up to see why Harry is asking her, expecting to see disapproval, or maybe even disgust, but instead she just sees gentleness, and above that, understanding.

So she answers truthfully. Because how can she not.

"Yes," she whispers. "I did. Somewhere in there I fell in love with Draco Malfoy." A grimace then. "Quite tacky if I do say so, being Ron's girlfriend and falling in love with our long term nemesis. Quite tacky."

Harry shrugs. "You can't always decide who you're going to fall in love with."

Hermione flashes him a cheeky grin. "Well, isn't that a good excuse for cheating about."

Harry shrugs, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Yeah. Well."

Hermione's grin grows into a smile then. Because she can. Because suddenly things are once more on an even keel.

If only for a moment.

Harry catches her eye once more.

"What about now?" He asks, tilting her once more to the defensive.

She bites her lip. Without thinking on it. Without realising it is a tell sign when Harry has known her for so long.

It is enough. Even though her words speak different truths.

"I don't think so." She says it slowly, trying to think it out and, like before, unable to do so.

She continues.

"I think now it's more of the compulsion, the binding, then any true feeling towards one another." She shakes her head, thinking on the last month. "We're not good for each other Harry, we -" She pauses, trying to think on how to explain things. "We mess with each other's minds and feelings."

Harry, instantly on alert.

"Has he hurt you?"

Hermione tried to smile, but did not quite make it.

"No more than I have hurt him I think." She says slowly again, quietly, the words the truth though her mind has, until then, denied them.

She shakes her head. "There is always this play of power to see who can outlast the other, who is stronger." She bites her lip again, chewing it, eyes distant, thinking. "Who is more intelligent. We are always so very aware of the stakes, the implications of words and actions, both of us moving away before anything can happen."

A grimace, remembering his words in the hallway, his accusations of seeing Ron in her mind, of holding that between them, knowing it is the truth, but also seeing an empty bed, waking up to an empty room.

And the feel of the ocean frigid about her naked body.

"Too much, Harry. There is always too much between us."

A moment where Harry examines, studies, Hermione's face.

She refocuses her gaze on Harry, smiling slightly. "We hurt each other," she says quietly. "And because of that we are always running away."

The memory of words. The flutter of lips.

A dream. Not reality. A dream.

She thinks, bringing a finger up to her lips unconsciously and touching them in memory of the dream.

Sadness, moving through her, around her, stroking up her person. "He is always running away." She repeats.

Harry watches her, the earlier memory coming unbidden to his mind and he knows he owes another explanation, another wave of words.

His own shame.

"Hermione." He finally says, calls, waiting until she looks up at him to continue. When he sees her brown eyes through the curls around her face he starts again.

"Malfoy was there today, at your bedside. From all accounts, and from Snape said before he left, he healed you. I'm not sure what he did, or for that matter what you did for Lily, but whatever it was it worked. On both of you."

Hermione notices the slight tensing of Harry's jaw, the ever slight glowing of his eyes.

It instantly causes her alarm.

"Harry? Is everything ok?" A thought, stabbing through her mind. She hasn't actually seen her Goddaughter and she wonders if something horrible had taken place without her knowing it.

"Lily? Is she ok?" She asks in a rush of words, even as she slowly starts to gather herself in case she is needed. Almost unconsciously pulling her magic around her.

Just in case.

Harry shakes his head.

"No. No, she's fine. You can see her actually. But first. Today, when I saw Malfoy we exchanged some words."

Hermione tilts her head because the information is not odd, not even unusual. Harry and Draco are allies, peers even, but not friends.

Harry looks down at his hands, hands that are lying on his legs, fingers tensing slightly, and then relaxing.

Hermione watches him.

Watches him in concern.

She stands up then and goes over to where Harry sits, placing herself alongside him on the bed.

Taking his hands, because she can, because she suddenly feels a drop of something harsh, brutal, and very, very heavy in her stomach.

"What, Harry?"

Harry looks down at their joined hands and then looks up to meet her eyes.

Swallowing.

And then telling her. "I told him that he is hurting you, that he has always hurt you."

The words, moving between them, circling in Hermione's head.

Harry continuing.

"I implied that he will always hurt you."

And the feeling of lips, the breath of words alongside her cheek.

"_I will free you, my love."_

Suddenly making sense, suddenly making too much sense.

Real. The words were real.

The connotations were real.

The endearment was real.

And suddenly, just suddenly, nothing makes sense, but everything makes sense, and the clarity is chaos, and nothing is right, but everything is right, and the place on her chest flares to life, and the throb at her spine presses, and presses, and something breaks and is healed.

And things are brilliant.

But distorted. Broken. Light spiking on broken pieces of glass.

"Hermione?" Harry, whispering, asking, entreating.

And Hermione looking at Harry, not realising that tears once more fall down her cheeks, not realising that everything for one agonizing moment is so very brilliant.

Standing up, dropping Harry's hands.

"I have to go." She walks to where her cloak lay across the chair, where George had placed it before, pulling it around her shoulders.

"Hermione?" The same voice, questions, unsure.

She turns and looks on Harry, turns and gives him a smile, but the smile is tinged in fear.

"I have to go. Harry he is…" She pauses, unsure really, not really wholly positive. But mostly. Mostly.

Continuing.

"He is going to attempt to break the bond." She says finally.

Harry is looking on her in confusion, because of the tears running down her cheeks, because of the smile she gives him, because she is not making sense.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

Hermione shakes her head, wildly almost.

_My love._

Echoing in her head. Over and over.

Echoing.

"I have to go, Harry. I have to find Draco."

She says as explanation. As an excuse. Something.

She takes three steps over to where Harry is standing and kisses him, a quick slide of lips over a rough cheek.

"I have to make things right."

She says. Quietly. An explanation. One she knows Harry will understand.

And then smiling brilliantly, for a moment looking like the girl he once knew, the brilliant but scary witch from before, from the days of his school, from the friendship they had known.

His Hermione.

Draco's.

Suddenly it's all right.

Harry smiles down at her in response, in acknowledgement, in acceptance.

What was the past is past, and he lets that brilliant but scary witch go, the one he has been holding onto for so long, lets her go and watches the older version, the one who is still his friend but so much more, walk out the door in a swirl of black cloak.

A determined look on her face.

Determined but underlined with fear and just a tinge, just a small tinge, of panic.


	35. Chapter 35

Hermione uses the bond. Without thought to the consequences, or the maybe, without thought to what it means that suddenly, just then, suddenly, she can feel his magic and pull on it as if it were her own.

Not really comprehending.

But using it, never the less.

Moving through the Potter's house, down the stairs, not passing anyone, though she would not have noticed if she had, opening the front door, taking three steps off the porch to the front lawn, closing her eyes.

And pulling.

And opening, filling herself, drawing on her magic, on the shadows about her, on the blood magic rolling underneath it, and that line, that bond, like a fine nylon rope swirling out in the distant, shadowed and crimson, grey, black, taking hold of it with both hands.

And pulling.

As she Disapparates.

Only to Apparate and stumble a bit on a suddenly rocky path, the smell of the sea and the whirl of wind immediately about her.

She brings her hand up to catch the curls about her face, her other hand holding her wand steadily by her side as she looks around her.

Realising with suddenness that she is once more at the small house overlooking the ocean, the small house she had left almost a week ago now.

She studies it, a small cottage with white-washed walls and dark wood trim standing desolately staring out at the grey sea. A small house, cosy, almost defiant against the breakers crashing against the cliffs below, the wind whipping in sea spray.

A small home. Settled comfortably even in the harshness of the winter clouds overhead and the coldness sweeping around it.

A tendril of smoke from a stone fireplace reaching up to the sky.

Hermione feels him, feels his magic, no longer a faint touch but more. Like a cocoon around her own, warm, stroking, comfortable, like the home, and she knows as soon as she walks towards the door that leads to the kitchen, that Draco has also felt her.

She is not surprised when he opens the door, stopping suddenly, looking on him, raking his face with her gaze, noticing the dishevelled hair, the drawn skin over cheekbones and the eyes, those eyes that have always told her more about his mood, about his thoughts, then anything else.

They are dark, a storm cloud building.

She takes a step forward, and then another, until she reaches the one step and looks up at him.

"Don't."

One word.

Almost whispered, torn from her mouth by the wind that picks it up and hurtles it away from her.

One word.

That he hears as he looks down on her, looks into dark brown eyes that plead with him, that are open.

An instant of thought, where he thinks of denying everything, when he thinks of speaking to her harshly, cutting, to make her leave, to make her go, so he can take care of this, for her, for him, for everything.

But he doesn't. He doesn't speak those words because she has her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, and her hair, those curls are whipping around her face even as one hand tries to contain them. And the picture is perfect, aching, everything she is.

Magic. Wild. Controlled. Ironies. And so very vulnerable.

He steps back away from the door.

An invitation though he still says nothing.

But it is an invitation and Hermione takes it as such, walking towards him, closing the distance, then past him, feeling him, smelling him, for just the briefest moments before she is in the kitchen.

Draco softly closes the door behind them and goes to the kitchen table, gracefully settling himself in a chair there.

Books litter the surface, quills, parchments, and tea things.

"Do you want some tea?" He asks. He pours himself another cup.

Hermione nods. She glances over the books on the table, picking up titles as she pulls her cloak off and drapes it over the back of a chair.

"Please," she says.

It echoes from a time, just weeks before.

Though neither of them notice it.

She sits across from him, taking the tea with a quiet thank you, still looking on the books and parchments before her. Everything indicating that she is right in her conclusions.

Hermione looks up and meets Draco's gaze.

"Why?" She asks softly, quietly, warming her hands about the porcelain cup.

Draco understands the question and does not pretend otherwise; instead he replaces his cup on the table and rubs just slightly the point between his eyes, closing them for a moment before opening them and meeting Hermione's look.

"Because it is something I should have done a long time ago."

He answers.

Though it isn't the answer Hermione is looking for.

She tilts her head, curls falling about her face as she studies him.

"You knew how to do it, all this time?"

Her words, not accusing, just curious.

Draco shakes his head. "No. But I could have found out how." He shrugs, nonchalant, easy, aristocratic, so very like the Slytherin prince, and the movement tugs at Hermione.

Tugs hard.

And she has to put her tea down so as not to slosh it over the side.

He continues. "I knew there was something more going on because of the bloodstones, when I held it in my hand, when I hold it in my hand, the bond, compulsion, whatever it might be, was intensified, almost like…"

Pausing, not knowing if he should continue.

"Almost like you can touch me." Hermione finishes quietly.

Draco rising a perfect brow at that, a slight rising of one side of his lips and Hermione blushes, blushes and looks down at her tea sitting on the kitchen table, remembering the two times that she brought the stone out, two times in the last ten years she brought it out from the box in her wardrobe and touched it, cradling it in her hands.

Just so she could feel him. A moment, just a moment, not enough, but enough at the same time.

"Yes." He says. "It's like I can touch you."

Silence between them, the only sound the creak of an old home under the onslaught of a sea wind.

Until he continues, grasping his tea once more and sipping it before placing it on the table.

"So, I knew there was something there, something that was not in the text, not in what you had calculated, a variable. I knew it was there, though I decided to ignore the knowledge."

Hermione looks down at her hands on the table, grasped in front of her, cold, chilled, even though the room itself is warm. Looking back, scanning her memory, knowing, knowing, as the brilliant witch she is, that she had also understood the information, understood that something had happened that had not supposed to have happened. Something which had produced two bloodstones, a blood magic, and a binding, and had not resulted in her death.

She had known something had happened, but had chosen to ignore it, chosen to let it be, chosen to not look into it.

And she has to wonder why. She has to wonder why she did not think to look further into it, to look further for an explanation, a reason, to look further and find out if there was some way to break the binding, to break the compulsion, to break the flaring of heat in her chest and the dreams that have followed her for ten years.

She wonders.

And knows the truth. Though she won't say it out loud.

Though Draco does. Just then.

"But I didn't want to." He says, a sneer at himself, she knows, looking up from her hands and catching it.

Draco refuses to look at her, looking down at his own tea, looking down as he confesses.

"I didn't want to lose the bond, didn't want to lose whatever connection I had with you, refused to because I couldn't let it go."

The words are spoken quietly, almost blandly, but it is as if they were shouted, as if they were larger then life and they tear, they break, against Hermione. Words, slaughtering.

Because of the truth in them. Because of the absolute truth in them.

She can feel it in his magic that swirls about her, intertwining with hers, supporting what he says, reaffirming the meaning.

Leaving no doubt.

She glances over his features, over the jaw line, the lips, the nose, the eyes looking down, the sweep of eyelashes and the fall of white hair over his forehead.

The ball in her stomach intensifying, growing heavier, heavier as it presses.

And then he looks up and she catches his eyes, catches and holds and they are heated, defiant, molten grey and the look takes her breath away, takes it and for moment she is lost, for a moment she swims there, drowning, and the feeling is brilliantly lovely.

Until he looks away.

And she remembers to breath.

And to speak.

One word.

"Don't."

A wry smile, razor sharp, jagged, slicing across Draco's features.

"And why ever not," he says and his voice is darker, thicker.

Hermione does not flinch but not because she does not notice the sudden darkening of the room, the sudden shadows growing about the man sitting across from her.

Because she does. Realise. But is not afraid of it. Not then, not right then.

Though she looks down at the table. Away from him.

Draco waits, and he is now watching her and she realises that she needs to answer, needs an answer, but she doesn't know the answer, because really, why not? Why not be free of this, of whatever this is, whatever it is between them. Free to move on, to forget him.

And as if those words were said out loud Draco barks a laugh, short, brutal, a fist in the stomach.

"No answer?" A pause, a moment, heavy. Then.

"Of course not." Sneered.

He stares at her, stares hard at her and she dares not raise her eyes because she can feel the anger moving across him in waves of cold, of chilled fury. Feels it, and relishes in it even as her blood starts, even as her breath grows shorter and warmth pools in the centre of her.

And the irony, once more, is not lost on her.

Desire.

Even now.

In reaction to him, just always, a reaction to him.

She doesn't know, and not knowing is something Hermione has never been able to deal with very well.

Closing her fingers into a fist on the kitchen table, against the tide of warmth, against the cold of Draco's anger.

How to explain? How does she explain why it is wrong, why he can't break it, why she doesn't want him to break it, because she should, because it would make everything so much simpler, it would smooth things out.

Clarity.

But she has spent so long in the shadows, in the murky waters surrounding her mind, in this connection, that she doesn't even know if there is clarity any more and if there is, she doesn't know if she would want it.

She doesn't know.

And she says that. Not looking up.

"I don't know."

Another harsh bark of laughter; she can almost hear the long fingered hand run through the fine strands of white hair. Almost hear it.

"And I thought you were the most brilliant witch of our time, the brilliant Hermione Granger, smartest witch in Hogwarts history, brilliant, dedicated, hero, but yet she is too fucking stupid to give me a simple answer."

Her anger. Just then. Crystal anger. In retaliation. And the suddenness, the strangeness of it, makes Hermione look up at him, eyes flashing. Because how dare he?

"There is no simple answer," she says through gritted teeth, because there isn't, and why can't he see that?

Draco looks on her, catches her anger, and sneers, his own anger rising, curling about him, stroking up his spine.

Leaning forward in his chair, against the table. "No? Seems to me this is what you've wanted, isn't it? For the last ten years, since we performed the spell, since your precious Weasley died, isn't this what you wanted? To get away from me? The Slytherin? The enemy?"

Hermione feels a flush of colour across her face, at his words, at the truth, but not the truth, because it isn't really the truth, but it should be.

"You are not the enemy," she says. Because that is what she catches and holds on to. Those words.

Draco stares at her, stares and catches her eyes and those eyes, grey like steel and she knows that means she should be afraid, she knows that means that she should back off, but her anger is there, and it hasn't been there for so long, and it's strong and it's heating her from the inside.

So she does not flinch.

She does not look away.

She meets his eyes, daring him, daring him to say something, to say anything. To discredit her words with some of his own.

And when he doesn't the anger grows, flickering, flaming, and she leans this time, leans towards him. "What? No answer for that?"

And Draco standing, standing then, and grabbing the teapot, grabbing the porcelain and hurling it against the wall, shattering it, hot tea splashing everywhere, towards her, towards him, and the crash is defining, creating havoc.

He turns on her, he turns and leans down on his hands, hovering, glaring down on her.

"I am the enemy, I have always been the enemy. Isn't that the stupid fucking point? Isn't that why every time I get next to you, every time I see you, every time I get in your fucking head I see that face? Because I am the enemy? Because you are too good for me, because you, the fucking Gryffindor fucking princess is too bloody good for me, and she has sullied herself, sullied herself, because she's fucked me. Isn't that the reason, because I am Draco Malfoy?"

And then leaning forward, leaning forward so his face is mere paces from hers.

Hissing. "Didn't you say it yourself, didn't you utter the words 'because I am Hermione Granger and you are Draco Malfoy'. Didn't you fucking say that?"

Hermione is furious, shaking in her anger, and Draco sees it, sees it in the way she raises her chin, in the way her eyes are burning and suddenly she is standing too, standing across from him, her own hands supporting her as she looks at him.

"You stupid git," she seethes. "You stupid, fucking git, you don't understand bloody anything do you?"

Draco throws his hands up then, turning, laughing, and it's harsh, and it bleeds, and it echoes in the room. "Of course not. Apparently. Apparently I don't know a fucking thing because we are having this conversation."

Hermione is furious, so furious now because why can't he see? Why can't he bloody see?

She picks up her own teacup and hurls it at the wall.

The crash is spectacular, and it slices the room and Draco turns to her and she laughs too, because it is so incredibly ridicules, the whole thing is so incredibly ridicules.

Laughs. Insane. Maniacal.

And then sobers.

Glaring at him. "Don't you see, this, this is what we do to each other. It's not because you are the enemy or I was once sorted into Gryffindor and you were sorted into Slytherin - those things don't matter. It's because of this, Draco, always this. We don't understand each other, I don't understand you. We never speak what's there, what is right, true. We are so incredibly messed up, look at what we do to each other, look at the last month. I haven't been able to sleep, I barely eat, I have spent the last ten years being like that, but this last month has been the worse. We are not good. Don't you see that? Why can't you see that?"

Hermione heaves in breath, her mind furious, her anger around her cold and hot, swirling about her as she stares at the wizard standing across from the table at her. Stares, glares, her magic hurling its way towards him, around him, the connection between them throbbing, crimson, blood, throbbing towards black.

And Draco just stands there, stands there and shakes his head and the look he gives her makes her want to slit his throat, makes her want to pick up the butter knife and stab him because it is condescending. So very, very condescending.

He speaks.

"Is that what you tell yourself then, Hermione? Is that what you say to yourself at night when you can't sleep and you walk the halls? Do you tell yourself all of that? Does it make you feel better? Does it make you feel more like a good person?"

Hermione shakes, shakes and feels like screaming but she keeps her voice low, even. "What are you talking about?"

It's Draco's turn to laugh, and it's amused, amused with the tight control of someone who has seen much darkness and lives in it, plays in it, thrives in it.

Hermione responds to it without knowing, flinching slightly, but standing her ground.

Which makes Draco laugh harder, because it is so brilliantly bloody perfect.

Her complete ignorance. Even after everything, her complete naïveté.

And because he wants to destroy, because he wants to make her feel what it is like to see something in a clarity that blinds the eye and kills slowly he stops laughing and speaks.

"Don't you see, my little Gryffindor? That's the whole point. We haven't always been like this, we haven't always been on opposite ends of the spectrum, or did you forget? Did you forget what it was like? Those afternoons, those nights, working together, talking, in the library, in the kitchen, under the bloody moon? Did you forget that night when we made love, yes, not fucking, you heard me right, but made love? Did you forget that?"

And because Hermione hasn't forgotten, because she hasn't, though it has been so long since she acknowledged the fact, her anger recedes, just a small amount.

Until Draco speaks again.

"But it was your bloody pride, your bloody guilt, your stupid fucking noble heart that put us here, that made us what we are. I wasn't the one that walked away that day, I wasn't the one that made everything dirty and dark and shadowed. I didn't do it. You did it with your words and your look."

Hermione stares at him, and stares, and looks, and pleads, in her mind, to stop this anger from erupting but her anger has always been a weak spot, a fault, and she can't stop it.

Her words. "What would you have had me done, Draco. I saved you, do you bloody understand? I saw Ron, I could have saved him, my boyfriend, Draco, my boyfriend and probably one day my husband, my best friend, the man I loved, I saw him and I could have saved him but you know what I did instead? Do you know what I did? I bloody well saved you! I saved you, who were supposed to be nothing to me, nothing. Do you understand? You were supposed to be bloody, fucking, nothing to me, and I saved you, you, you. Do you bloody understand that? I was not supposed to save you, but I did, I did, and Ron died because I did, and you were supposed to be nothing. Nothing."

And then coldness.

Frigid. Coldness.

Hard.

Between them. And Draco straightening, straightening, straightening and placing the cloak of the Malfoy aristocrat about his shoulders.

And his words. His words so cold, so very cold, distant, dark. "If you expect me to lament because you saved my life instead of your future husband's you're going to be waiting for a very long time."

The words. Cold. Quiet.

But instead of dousing the flame of anger that has Hermione shaking, it urges it, upwards, forwards and she narrows her eyes.

"Of course." She says. Hisses. "I would never expect you to be thankful for it."

One eyebrow rising, a slight twist to the mouth. "Why should I be thankful? Tell me Hermione, why should I be thankful? I should have died that day, you should have saved your Weasel, because if you had I wouldn't have had to spend the rest of my life loving a witch I can never fucking have."

The words.

Ice bits. In the air.

And Hermione stares. Stares, as the wry twist to Draco's lip turns on itself, into a sneer.

"What?" He says. "Did you think I didn't, that I don't? You were all that kept me sane in those months, the beautiful Granger with the big heart, the brilliant mind. You turned everything on its head, everything I believed in by simply existing. Even before, even in school, watching you, not understanding, challenging me, a Mudblood, always challenging me, and then later, at the Burrow, caring for me when no one else did, being my friend, how could I not fall in love with you?" Another sneer, a hand clenching.

Hermione opening her mouth, but not knowing what to say, knowing, but not knowing.

Terrified.

Draco continuing. "So I say I don't owe you thanks. I wish I would have died; I have wished it every day since that man's funeral, every fucking day, but in my twisted world, this twisted world I have created around myself, I still couldn't let you go, having to hold onto something, even if it was wrong, deceitful, having to hold onto it."

Hermione can no longer stand up straight, her power of conception, of realisation, slowly slipping through her body to the wood floor underneath her. Sitting herself in the chair.

Slipping. Between her fingers.

Draco's voice, still cold, razor sharp, but smooth, liquid, black silk across her face, her cheeks, across her neck, the pulse there.

"But I am letting it go, Hermione. I have made the choice to let it go."

And Hermione sinking further into the shadows. Further into the shadows.

Calling on something, memory, something.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

She says. Whispers. The only thing she can think, moving about her mind, swirling about her mind, again, and again.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." She whispers.

Remembering.

As does Draco, who stands there looking down on her, on her bent head, on the curls that fall across her face, hiding it.

"I don't remember hurting you." She says even quieter, to herself, more than to him.

The harsh bark of laughter this time causes the hole in her gut, the frayed nerves, to sparkle in pain. Brilliant, blinding pain.

"Let me remind you then." He says.

And she whimpers, to herself, not out loud, but deep, at the base of her spine, because she doesn't want to. Doesn't want to listen to it.

Hearing him sit himself across from her, seeing through the curls as he slouches in his chair, every muscle relaxed, every muscle but the jaw and the hardened iron eyes.

So cold. Very, very cold.

"This is how I remember it, and please, interrupt me if I get something wrong because I wouldn't want to be mixing my facts with unreality. I remember seeing you that morning, coming in from outside to the kitchen and how you looked like you hadn't slept. Of course, that wasn't entirely different, none of us had slept for a long time, but I remember thinking that you looked less broken, more of a whole person. I thought you looked beautiful and I was going to walk to you and tell you, I remember this distinctly; I was going to tell you that everything would work out because finally we would be able to move forward instead of being in the endless cycle that we'd been trapped in since the war began. Finally, we could move forward, but before I could go to you, tell you these things, you had run out of the kitchen. I don't even think you saw me."

A pause.

And Hermione remembers, remembers the decision she'd made that morning, sitting in the Burrow's garden, the decision to move away from Draco, to leave him, not understanding at the time the why but feeling as if it were the only way. Remembering when she walked into the kitchen how she had remembered the countless times they had spent there talking all night with tea, trying to keep the demons away and how it had tore at her, and had threatened her resolve.

She hadn't known he was there.

And she wonders now if he had said something, made his presence known, if it would have turned out different.

But she refocuses, away from the memories, Draco speaking once more.

"I didn't see you again until the funerals. They buried Fred first, I remember that because I remember thinking I had never seen the other twin, George, so sombre before. Then they buried others, lots of others, until finally they buried Weasley." A smirk, a grimace, something moving across Draco's face before being replaced by blankness once more. Coldness.

"I tried to go to you. I wanted to comfort you, but you had Potter and he was holding on to you for dear life, and so I left you with him, figuring that would be the best for now, that I would comfort you after the funeral, but I never looked away. The entire time the ceremony was taking place I never looked away, trying to support you, I guess, with my magic, though at the time I hadn't realised that's what I was doing."

And Hermione remembers, remembers the feelings of support, of love, of warmth, radiating through her, comforting her.

At the time she had thought it was Harry.

She hadn't even realised it could be the wizard standing across the grave from her, the wizard she knew was there but didn't look at it.

Continuing.

"But after the funeral, when everyone started to walk away, I went to you. I wanted nothing more to envelop you, hug you, take away your pain." Another bark of laughter, harsh, brittle.

It causes Hermione to wince, to almost double over in pain. Because she knows what's coming, can remember it, see it.

Dark.

Draco sobering. Once more without emotion on his face. Flat voice. "See, I went to you, and when I tried to put my arm around you, comfort you, that's what I thought, you said that word, the one you said earlier. 'Don't,' you said. One word, and then you turned to me, to face me, your face resolved, your chin up in the air, hair about your face, and you told me that whatever happened was now in the past, that whatever we had done was now no longer needed and that it would be best for both of us if we stepped away. You said, 'I think it's best if you left.' "

The words.

Heavy. In the air. Because of the truth in them. Because of the flat emotionless nature in which they are said.

Because Hermione can feel them, weighing down, weighing down, until she wonders why she doesn't fall to the ground, until she wonders why she is not slipping away, not slowly bleeding out in dark rivets of crimson.

Why there is no blood.

Because the pain is real. The pain is jagged. Slices, great jagged slices of pain.

"So you see, Hermione, you see, I wish to all the gods, to Merlin, to anyone that has ever existed, that you would have saved him that day, that you would have let me die because at least then, at least then I would have died with the memory of you before that, before you said those words, when all I knew was that for a brief moment in time I thought you loved me like I knew I loved you and I didn't know it was all one fucked up spectacular lie."

The words, echoing, echoing.

And in them. Brutal truth.

But so very, very wrong.


	36. Chapter 36

Brutal truth.

But lies. Half truth, things that they have had between them. A history.

And in the history, a logic.

And Hermione catches on to that logic. Catches on and holds against her chest.

Knowledge.

Staring at him. At the vibrating about him, the magic swirling about him, the intensity of his words.

"You don't love me." She says, the words out before she can stop them, before her mind can catch up with her tongue, throat, voice.

But in them the knowledge she is seeking.

The truth.

A snort. A sneer.

"Of course you would say that. The know-it-all always, aren't you?"

Hermione, feeling the irritation along her nerves, but keeping herself calm, cool, shaking her head. "You don't. I know you don't. It's the compulsion, the bonding, that's all it is."

Explanation. Knowledge. Logic. She gathers those things around her.

Looking away from him then, away, to look down at the parchments, quills, books, on the table. Looking away from him so she can gather her thoughts.

"You don't." She says again. Quietly.

A shift in the chair across from her, the barely heard movement of fabric.

"Pray, Miss Granger, why you have decided that you know more about what I feel and think then I do?"

The words, supposed to be sneered, mocking, but dead cold. Ice.

Falling between them.

Hermione still does not look up, does not look up because she doesn't want to see what is in his eyes. She doesn't want to feel the brilliant pain that circles her like a wolf in the night.

Circling. Judging. Preparing to strike and tear at her throat.

She knows the pain is there.

So she does not look up. Staring at the quills, picking one up, just to have something I her fingers, to have something to occupy her physical as her mental skips, trips, its way over the words that are on her tongue but which she doesn't really want to say.

Because a small part of her, albeit a very small part of her, does not want to hear her logic, wants to hold on to his words, to that word, though the larger part of her knows its false.

Believes without a doubt it's false.

So she plays with the quill and does not acknowledge the wolf circling about her.

Speaking. "The bond, the binding, this compulsion, sharing of magic, that's what this is."

She says the words quietly. Into the silence.

She looks down. Not realizing that Draco has moved until she feels his hands on her face, suddenly, long fingers along side her cheeks, reaching up to her hair, retching her face upwards.

Fear. Then. Suddenly, as she is trapped between his hands. Grey eyes hard. Glittering.

Fingers digging into her cheeks.

But Hermione is past the point where a small amount of fear keeps her from very much and she jerks her head back, out of his hands, shoving herself from the table, standing up.

"Don't touch me." She hisses, anger, which had stepped back for a moment now forcing itself forward.

A defense. Though she doesn't realize it.

And Draco laughs then. Laughs, and it sounds normal, once more slouching backwards in his chair.

"Why?" He asks, smirks. "You like when I touch you."

And those words. They are truth, and Hermione knows it because she can feel his fingers, along her face, still, but other places.

Distant echoes. Memories.

"Don't touch me." She repeats, stepping backwards then, towards the door.

And Draco tenses. Seeing it, wondering if now, she will leave.

A part of him wanting her to do so, another part of him hoping, praying, because even though his blood is moving through his mind, body, at the touch of her skin, another part of him is still tired.

Tired of so very much.

But still he tenses.

Watching her.

But she stops at the window, looking out at the night now, suddenly, darkness taking over, smoothing over the small cottage and its two occupants.

Hermione raises a hand and places her palm against the glass.

And Draco remembers the frigid chill of her wand against his chest. The coldness about their persons as they completed the spell and how it felt then. Wondrous. Complete.

Coldness.

An anchoring. For the last ten years.

He sees her action and understands her action.

And calls her on it, even as he moves from his chair, rising, slowly, gracefully, and silently making his way to where she stands, closing the distance, blood throbbing in his ears, pooling at the base of his spine.

Moving so he stands behind her, looking at her in the reflection of the glass.

And Hermione closes her eyes.

The swirling of magic brilliant in the darkness.

And he leans down, leans down in a posture that has become normal between them, that has become routine, putting his lips along her ear.

Whispers. "But you like it when I touch you."

And when Hermione hears the voice, silk, darkness, moving through her mind she tries to keep it out, tries to keep the heat away, the tightening of her center, her being, trying to not be effected.

Draco bringing a hand up, to gather the curls at the base of her neck, letting his fingers get caught in their mass, lifting them, heavy in his hand, exposing the knob at the top of her spine.

He places a kiss there, hot, open mouthed. One kiss at the top of her spine. Feeling her shiver, feeling her involuntary shiver even as she tenses to battle it.

Another kiss. Tongue, slightly pressed against her skin, tasting it, the salt, the scent of her, tasting it along his tongue, moving it, as one hand holds her hair and the other hand moves the fabric of her clothing.

Another. Just at the hollow of the collarbone, feeling the thrum of her moan as she leans back into him, against him, the full length of her body pressed securely against him.

Thrilling, to feel him hard against her back, knowing that he does to her is what she does to him. But knowing, all the while, it is something else, something more, less, she doesn't know, not when she can feel his lips, his tongue, on her skin, hand in her hair.

But remembering, somewhere, in the back of her mind, in the small part that is not melting under Draco's attention, that there is something bigger than this, more than this, that there is something they need to discuss.

Some point.

Some logic.

Another kiss, along her neck, moving upwards, to her jaw, a hand, circling about her, circling to pull her closer to him, into the heat, into the melting heat, away from the cold, away from the frigid nature of the window pain.

"Please." She whispers.

Whispers. A plea, but not sure what she is pleading for.

"Please what?" He murmurs, against her skin, against the sensitive hairs along her face.

And she doesn't know, doesn't know because his hand on her stomach is moving, tugging, pulling, and then the skin of his palm is against the skin of her stomach and suddenly the logic no longer matters.

No longer matters and she lets her head fall back to his chest, lets his lips move over her face, lets his hand slide up the skin of her stomach, upwards, to the swell of her breast, a finger, caressing the crease, thumb moving over the silk of her bra, it no longer matters.

And all Draco is able to comprehend is how incredibly soft she is, soft, pliant, in front of him, leaning back towards him, the feel of her hair, the taste of her skin.

"You like when I touch you," he murmurs, along her forehead.

And Hermione closes her eyes because she does, always, ever since the first time he touched her, a finger along the side of her face, she has loved his touch.

And the word. Echoes. Remembers. Echoes.

Love.

And suddenly she remembers. Remembers and jerks forward, turning in his embrace, turning so his hand falls away from her skin and hair, turning to face him, looking up at him, catching his eyes.

And biting down on a moan when she sees the look there, the gray the colour of quicksilver.

Biting down on it. Hard.

Because this is the point. The logic.

And he sees it in her face, in her own eyes, the battle of desire, the battle of something else, what they'd been discussing, yelling.

What she's been trying to prove.

The memory of why he is here.

And he steps back away from her. One step back away from her, anger replacing the lust he'd felt moments before. So quick, always so quick, the change in those two feelings, those two emotions.

"This," she starts, quietly, voice slightly wavering, clearing, continuing. "This is what you feel, this bond, lust, whatever."

A pause. Cold. Frigid.

Continuing.

"This is what you feel." Hermione emphasizes.

Draco looking down, seeing the words as if written in the air between them, and then a wry smile, a twisting of lips, and a slight shrug of the shoulders.

Turning away. Turning away.

To go back to the table. To sit himself back in the chair. To slouch easy. Nonchalant.

Ever elegant. Ever arrogant.

Looking to where Hermione still stands at the window, uncertain, along the lines of her magic, the slight straightening of her shoulders. But defiant in the way she looks at him, the rise of her chin.

A hand, long fingers, indicating the parchments and books in front of him.

"Then all the more reason to be rid of it." He says.

Hermione stares. Realizing suddenly, with blinding force, what just happened.

The manipulation of it.

Her anger, not fueled by fury this time, no, but by the sudden rise of panic, the sudden rise of terror, seeing that she has just made his point.

That she has just helped him win the argument. The original argument. Not the one about love. But the one about the destruction of a bond.

A bond she doesn't want to be destroyed.

And she steps. One step.

Shaking her head. Because that is not what she wants.

But things are confused again. So very confused. Like they always have been.

And how to make sense of things?

Draco watching her, reading her. Seeing the emotions, but looking away because their battle has been long, too long.

"What Granger?" He sneers. "Don't you want to get rid of this, between us, this bloody mess of emotion that we seem to not be able to get out of?" A smirk. "Don't you want to mourn your dead boyfriend in peace and without guilt?"

Looking down at the parchments, going to pick up a quill, a book, to get started.

But Hermione moves then, quickly suddenly, moving to where he sits, propelled by indecision, by fear, by anger, by so many different things, by the shadows swirling about her, and the darkness.

Moves to him and with a strength undiminished through the years, hits him, across the face, quick, precise.

The sound echoing through the room.

The redness slowly creeping across a white cheek.

Draco looks up at her, surprise moving across his features, surprise followed by something else, something darker, meaner.

Hermione steps back.

But Draco grabs her wrist, grabs it before she can move away, grabs it to pull her towards him, to punish her, to take away the sting that ricochets across his face, but instead, instead of crushing her to his body, he stops.

Just a moment.

Barely there.

And then lets her wrist drop.

Because he is tired. Because he doesn't want to fight anymore.

Because the anger slips away from him.

Because what, in the end, is the use.

Hermione looks down at him, seeing the swirl of magic, the anger, then suddenly, that anger is gone, replaced by dullness.

And the dullness hurts more than the brilliance ever did.

The silence between them stretches outwards. The distant sound of waves and the pop of the fire, the only things ticking away the passage of time.

"I don't want you to." Hermione finally says. She finally breaks the silence.

Draco not looking at her. Not looking away from the table.

"Why?"

One word. One word that hangs between them.

A word Hermione still cant answer. And it frustrates her, frustrates her and makes her crazy, a feeling of jagged glass along her nerves, up her spine.

"Because." She answers. Answers, stumbles. Not sure.

"Because." She repeats.

And Draco looks up at her then, looks up at the witch standing still in front of him, the sting of her slap still on his cheek.

Looks up and sees the woman she is, separate from everything between them, sees her, and wonders, again, what is between them. Wonders if it is just the bond, nothing more.

But then she meets his gaze, and the darkness there, that swirls about her person, is along her look, and it's the same darkness that he knows, is intimate with.

"What do you want Hermione?" He asks, quietly, almost gently.

A choked sound, coming from her throat, as her hands fist at her side.

Draco not looking away. "What do you want?" He whispers.

She looks away. She breaks the gaze, she looks down at the books, at the parchments.

Misery. She laughs at it. Inside her head. The madness of it. Insanity.

A tangled mess of thought. A tangled mess of memory, emotion.

A tangled, bloody, mess.

"You should have died."

She answers.

A moment. Silence.

Draco answering.

"I know."

The words, so very, very wrong.

And there is nothing to say.

So Hermione says nothing at all.

Looking down at her hands, hands clasped now in front of her, holding tight on to something. Control?

No. Not any more.

No more control. Just blankness. Nothingness.

And because she has nothing to say, because the silence is deafening, because the man across from her is so relaxed, so nonchalant in all his elegant glory, she goes over to where the broken pieces of porcelain lay on the floor and kneels.

She starts to pick the pieces up.

By hand.

Without magic.

Gathering the porcelain in her hands, clenching fingers around them so the edges, broken edges, slice into her fingers, into her palms.

Silently picking up the broken pieces.

Draco watches her for a moment, watching until he can see the blood on her hands as she slowly moves to another piece of porcelain, as she picks it up and adds it to the pile in her hands.

"What are you doing?"

And his voice is almost harsh because he doesn't understand her reaction because if their past is any indication of the way of things she should be leaving, or, at the very least, hexing him, yelling at him.

But she is picking up the pieces of the porcelain. Slowly, methodically.

He moves to her, moves to her before he knows what he is doing, kneeling in front of her.

Watching her for a moment longer, shaking his head in exasperation, because really, what is she doing?

Then.

Raising his hand and twitching his wrist, the rest of the pieces gathering themselves, the pieces in her hands flying outwards, reassembling the tea pot, the tea cup. They return, gently, back to the table.

Hermione does not flinch from the wandless magic, she does not even look up as the pieces are taken from her.

She does not move from her knees, looking down at her hands that are now criss crossed with shallow cuts, but now empty.

Draco can see the cuts from where he kneels.

And the blood, the redness against those palms causes something to twist into him.

Twisting, harder and harder, when she looks up and meets his eyes and he sees that she is crying.

Silently.

Tears falling down her cheeks, slowly, gathering at her chin and dropping to the floor.

He watches as if mesmerized.

And she looks on him and in her mind so much confusion, so very much confusion.

"I had to save you," she repeats, again. Through her tears, her voice cracking, breaking, under the implications, the lack of implications, the thoughts. "I couldn't let them do that to you. I could let them…" And she trails off, because what can she say.

"I would have died." A whimper, from low in her throat because it is the truth. In the end, she survived Ron's death, but she would not have survived the death of the man kneeling in front of her.

The knowledge.

So confused. Because she hurts, low, deep in her belly.

Because he loved her.

Because he said he loves her, and she doesn't know what that means or if its even true. She has never known what that means and all she can focus on is the way his eyes look, the nature of the colour there, swirling storms clouds once more, and the way the firelight now glances of his white hair.

And she thinks him beautiful.

And it tears at her gut.

Because how could she forget how beautiful he is.

How could she have forgotten what it was she felt that night sitting in front of the fireplace, that night later, when they had watched the night turn to dawn, secure in one another.

And he sees her, the blood on her hands and so gently, as if approaching a wild animal he takes her hands in his, cradling them, and with a word, not even spoken, breathed, focusing on the cuts on her palms and along her fingers, he heals her.

Holding those hands in his, for a moment, just a moment, and then letting them go, not looking away as they slowly fall to Hermione's side. Not looking away until she speaks and then looking up to her face, along the lines of her lips, the wet trails along her cheeks, finally to her eyes.

"I couldn't let it kill you," she says, pleading, not wiping away the tears on her cheek or looking down on the healed cuts on her hands, looking at him, capturing him with a gaze.

The words whispered across to him. A plea, something else, that he has never heard from her, or if he has, never wanted to remember.

"Couldn't let it take your soul." She says.

And Draco looks across at her, looks at the witch kneeling on the floor, and he shakes his head to get away from her image, the image in front of him.

Because what does he say to that? How can he respond to her words, knowing that she holds it against him, that she holds her decision against him?

And he is tired, the fury that he felt, the cold resolve, is fading away and now he just feels tired.

Down deep in his bones, in the marrow of his bones, and realizes that he doesn't want to feel tired any more, that he wants to be free of this, the compulsion, the constant ache at the base of his spine, the knowledge of her, and her magic, the pain brilliant in its cold heat at the point on his chest.

Wants to stop loving her.

Finally. Just wanting it to stop.

So he looks away from her, over her head at the gathering night, away from her and her healed hands and her tears.

Looks away.

To the night. To the darkness. Something so base about it. So right about it.

"Why did you come here Hermione?" He finally asks. Again. Reiterating.

Breaking the silence between them.

She looks at him, kneeling in front of her, looking up at him, and what she sees is the tiredness she can feel in her bones, the tiredness, the resolve.

And she feels fear, low, deep, fear, at that look, knowing that look.

Draco closes his eyes, for a moment, just a moment.

And then looks down at her, seeing, as if brilliant in his mind, how she gathers herself, how the tears slowly dry in her eyes, as she brings her magic about her.

He sighs, rising to his feet and going to sit down at the table once more, placing his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table.

She breathes in a breath. Once twice, then stands slowly and going to the table to sit herself in the chair once more, clasping hands in front of her.

Across from him, looking on the bowed head, the white hair, and she wants to touch it and because there is too much in the room, too much between them, and because its old, a familiar feeling, but still so new, she does.

Reaching a hand out, one hand, across the table and touching the white strands, silky under her fingertips.

Aching in the memory of how it feels.

Draco does not look up though he feels the touch, the heat from her fingers as she places them along the top of his head.

But he does not look up.

So very tired.

Hermione watches her hand as it strokes the fine hair, watching it play with the fire lit whiteness.

But then letting her hand drop when he does not move. And he does not say anything.

"Why do you love me?" And its not the question she meant to ask, but it's the question that comes unbidden from her mouth.

The question catching him off guard.

"What?" He asks. Clarifies. Not sure if he heard her correctly.

A huff, from Hermione, almost in indignation, definitely in annoyance. "Why do you love me?"

Draco shaking his head, at the absurd nature of the question, at the change in conversation. "I thought you didn't believe me?"

Hermione shrugs, studying his face as he finally looks up at her. "You said you did, so why do you think you love me."

Draco just stares at her. Staring. Not understanding, searching her face for some kind of guile, something wrong, dangerous.

But all he sees is open curiosity and a slight tinge of nervousness.

And the magic he feels from her, its gentle. A slight touch, not brutal, not demanding.

Gentle.

He looks down at the table.

"Why?" He asks.

Hermione feels her stomach roll, feels the nerves there, beating steadily against the lining of her belly.

"Because I want to know." She answers.

A snort. From him, but not brutal, not sneering, just, acknowledgement.

Of course she wants to know.

And Draco does know, down, at the base of his spine, about his person, in his magic. He knows. Has the knowledge, sees it in his mind even as he stares down at the parchments in front of him.

But he is still Draco. He is still a Malfoy. He does not trust.

Not even in Hermione.

So he looks up, piercing her with greyness.

Now, the colour of the sea outside the house, crashing against the cliffs.

"But why should I tell you?"

And Hermione's breath catches. Catches because she doesn't know the answer, but suddenly, just then, it is so very important for her to have an answer, because something is moving away from them, away from them.

And she doesn't know if it's a good thing or not.

Words, coming to her. "Because after this, if we break this bond, you will never be able to tell me again."

A rise of an eyebrow. To the answer.

But she is not done.

Continuing.

"Because you are not a coward."

The gauntlet. Thrown down.

And Draco takes it, takes it with a sudden smile that tears at her in its gentleness, in the way it softens his face, softens his eyes.

"And that is why." He says, answers.

Hermione tilts her head, a furrow of confusion marring the skin between her eyes.

And Draco can't help but smile more.

"And because of that." He says.

Hermione would have reacted badly perhaps, blown up at the cryptic nature of his words, if it weren't for the look that he is giving her.

And his magic, touching her, a sigh across hers, drifting softness, silkiness, velvet, warming, cool.

A whisper of air across her mind.

Body.

"Hermione," he says, begins. "Hermione Granger, never my witch, always just outside of my realm of existence. Do you know what its like to want something so much it hurts down deep in your mind and body, but know that you can never have it?"

Her chin rises at that, a slight narrowing of her eyes. "So you love me because you cant have me?"

Draco shaking his head. "No, I love you because of the reasons I can't have you." A pause. Continuing. "I love you because of your noble heart, because of your goodness, because even though you are shadowed, even though you have tasted darkness, known it, something is always, and will always be pure about you."

And then because so much is between them all ready. Because there is so much there.

He continues.

"I am tired Granger. I want to sleep without you invading my dreams. I want to wake up in the morning and go to bed without you on my mind, without your magic touching mine, without being constantly reminded of something I can never have. I thought, at the beginning, when Minerva first came to me, that maybe this would be the chance, maybe, finally, after all this time, you would have moved away from what happened, but I found out, that you haven't, that you hold that knowledge, that memory, as close as you ever have." A slight smile, a twist of lips. "And the irony of it, the fact you do, makes me love you even more. You wouldn't be you if you had just let it go. But, I'm tired, and you deserve more than this, whatever this is, we have, or don't have. You deserve more, and I just want to rest."

And Hermione stares at him. Stares, and those parts of her that were broken, that were shattered, suddenly, they are not as huge, not as overwhelming.

Suddenly.

It just doesn't matter.

But she doesn't move. Not towards him, not away from him, just staring.

At him.

Silence.

Between them. Always between them.

Even in the heat of an argument. Even in the moment of passion.

A silence. That is comforting. That is real.

A presence.

And Hermione smiles, because right then, clarity.

After ten years. Finally.

Clarity.

And then she does move, leaning forward, leaning to capture his face with her hands, the same as he done moments before, stilling him, stilling her, and in his eyes knowledge, and in her eyes knowledge, and it speaks of a different time, a different place.

And before she kisses him, before she lets her lips fall to his, she holds that look, grey eyes the colour of a northern sea, brown the colour of amber in the dark, holding the gaze.

And she smiles.

Because that is exactly the answer she was looking for.


	37. Chapter 37

The kiss is gentle.

A breathe, along lips. A confirmation. Of sorts.

Thrilling. Momentary.

Draco pulls away slightly. Just a small amount, enough to look into the eyes of the witch in front of him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, a whisper of air along the side of her cheek.

A smile, in her eyes, in the softness about her mouth.

"And here I thought you were experienced enough to know what a kiss is," she says. Joking. Court jester. Lighting the room because it's heavy about them, shadowed, darkened.

Heavy.

But Draco does not want that answer and he scowls, a narrowing of dark eyes, so very dark, because suddenly they are a dark grey, intense, heated.

Making Hermione shiver, and not from fear.

Anticipation. Desire.

And she sobers, because suddenly, after so long, the moment is here, the brief time, a lapse of judgment, reality, a cornerstone out of what is true.

A moment absent from time in a small cottage facing the sea.

Honesty.

It swirls about them in the colour of blood. Crimson and strengthened to a darkened colour of shadows. Promises, lives not lead. Words not spoken.

"Do you know what used to get to me about you?" Hermione asks, and in her voice a tilt of something precious. Sacred.

Draco looking at her, shaking his head slightly, until the memory surfaces, suddenly, completely. A smirk then, just faint, along the side of his mouth. "Because I am brilliant?"

Hermione, hands still along side his face rubs a thumb over the slightly scruffed skin of his jaw line. She smiles, looking down on his lips, slightly parted, feeling the warmth pool to a heated insistence. Deep. In her womb.

"You never had to try." She says, corrects. "Never had to try." She murmurs again, to herself more to him.

And Draco wonders where she is going with this, this bit of memory, this bit of thought, part of him wanting to pursue the question, another part of him reluctant to do anything that would cause her to pull away, cause her hands to fall away from his face.

Her fingers. So gentle.

More telling than she probably even knows.

So he nods, just barely. Fighting the urge to close his eyes, fighting the ever increasing arousal of having her near, trying to hold on to what this is about, what her presence her means, what he is here for. But losing, always losing his awareness around her.

Wanting, so very desperately, just to let go.

But he keeps his eyes on hers, steady.

And another smile, slight, gentle. "Harry says you're intelligent."

He cant help it, a snort of laughter then, a slight rise of his eyebrow, but her smiles grows a little bit bigger and her hands do not drop.

"I thought you would find that amusing. But he's right. You are." She has been looking at his mouth as she spoke but now she looks up and meets his gaze once more and what he sees there causes his chest to contract.

Suddenly it is very hard to breath.

"Always smart Draco, the ease of being a Malfoy, the Prince, there are only two things I have ever seen you voluntarily work for, voluntarily suffer for" A pause then, a pause as she searches his eyes for something, for something he doesn't know she searches for.

Continuing. "The war." A pause. Then. "And me."

The constriction in his chest, growing, the vice tightening, tightening about his person, the look in her eye causing all thought to move away, far away, until only those words are flamed in his mind, in his brain.

On his tongue, against his teeth. Sweet, but still so sour, bitter almost, because of the nature of their history.

Pleasant. With a tinge of harshness. Like everything else between them.

Her hands hold his face between cool palms, her thumbs on his lips, staring into his eyes and she feels her heart moving about her chest, bursting up from her throat.

"I don't know what this is Draco, this feeling I get when I'm around you, the need to have your hands on me, your lips on me, but more than that, the need to hear your words, to argue with you, to feel your intelligence, to have you, all of you, every bit of you, about me. Your mind, magic, hands, all of it. I don't know the reason behind my inability to find other relationships, my inability to banish you from my thoughts, those eyes, always in the back of my mind, our bond always around me, supporting me, warming me. I don't know what that means."

A pause, as her thumb moves across his lips, though her eyes never leave his. "I don't know why I am so horrified at the thought of you to destroying this bond, this compulsion, I don't know why, because you're right, it will probably make things easier." A smirk, a slight, ever so slight smirk that fades away to earnestness, to seriousness. "But, I cant let you, the very thought of you doing it causes a fear, dark, forbidding, like nothing I have felt since the days before, around the war, facing Voldemort. And panic, a horrible panic, like drowning."

Tightening her hands then, fingers tips bruising his cheeks. "A panic because I know Draco, know with everything that I am, that I can no more lose you now then I can lose you before, and that in the end, in the end, I will choose you. I will always choose you, no matter the past, no matter what my noble heart or my inner Gryffindor might say."

A pause. A whisper.

"I will always choose Draco Malfoy."

Moments. The sound of the fire in the grate, the sound of wind about the house.

The distant sound of waves against cliffs.

A moment.

That Draco stares at the witch in front of him, that he hears, processes his words. A moment.

And then he does the only thing he can think to do.

He kisses her.

And in that kiss, like before, is desperation, for her words to be true, for there not to be any lies.

For honesty.

And when she doesn't pull away, when she tilts her head just slightly, just enough, his hands come up to her arms and he pulls her towards him, onto him, wrapping himself about her, deepening kiss with long lazy strokes of his tongue, lips, and teeth.

But under the laziness, a hunger, a heat, that they feel, thrilling, down deep. His hands moving across her skin, her hands moving up his arms, while they breathe into each other, falling further into the blood magic that swirls about them.

Suddenly breaking away, breaking away and standing up in a smooth motion of grace and agility, Hermione in his arms, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck, looking up at him.

The sight of her smile, the slightly swollen lips, the eyes dark with passion, causes something to jerk, pull, hard in his chest.

"I am going to make love to you Hermione Granger, unless you stop me right now," he whispers the words, but they are fierce, guttural, words that must be spoken though every instinct of his is yelling at him to just take her, be damned the actual consequences or anything else.

But he does speak those words. And because he does something in Hermione warms, glows, and she smiles up at him and he thinks he has never seen anything else more beautiful.

"Please," she says.

A slight smirk. An insertion of his normal self. A nod to earlier. "Please what?" He prompts.

A flicker of irritation, of normalcy. "Please make love to me Draco Malfoy," she says, keeping the irritation down, but still there.

Some things change, some things do not.

But before her words process, or the tone they are said in, his lips are on hers once more, and then steps, several, until they come to the room they'd left days ago, the fire leaping there all ready, the bed, with the pillows, no longer indented with two heads, but waiting for them.

And he lowers her to the black surface, lowering her gently, his fingers coming up to smooth away the curls from her forehead, staring down into those eyes, and then kissing her nose, then her cheek, her forehead, the point behind her ear, her hands moving across his back, shoulders, down his sides.

Looking up once more to catch her gaze and then startling to see that tears have started, slowly, trickling down her cheeks and immediately he stiffens, immediately wondering if it was a lie, all of it.

And she must have seen it, felt it under her roaming hands because she lets go of his shoulders to reach for his face, cupping it as she has several times that night, cupping it and smiling up at him.

Draco relaxes, slightly, ever so slightly, bringing a finger up to wipe the moisture from one cheekbone. "Why are you crying?"

The smile, less sure this time, but still there, but her eyes, burning, and her magic, a warmth so secure, so comforting that it doesn't allow him to pull away.

But still. He must know.

So he asks her again.

And this time she answers.

"Because I just realized something," she says and her voice is weak almost, breaking, but clear, precise, words spoken as her hand traces feather light touches over his cheekbones and his lips, over his nose and eyebrows.

Draco watching her, holding himself still. Waiting.

Poised.

But then her words, crashing whatever barriers there might have still existed. Her words.

Demolishing him.

"I do love you," she says.

Words.

And then her laugh. Crystal. Bells.

And her eyes shining.

"I do." She says. The wonder of it. "So very, very much."

And then she brings her head up and kisses him, and this time the kiss is not gentle, its demanding, its heated, and he moans into it, falling onto his elbow, senses very much taking the first seat as he feels this witch, his witch below him, her hands on him.

Finally. His witch.

And this time their fingers are more sure, quickly depositing their clothes to the floor, their hands knowing, the curves of her hip, the small of his back. Their lips know the place at her collarbone, the slight trail of hair on his flat stomach.

Bodies knowing even as breath moves between them, whispers of skin against skin, the moan and slight quickening of pulse, of magic about them. Hermione kissing the scar on his forearm, even as he kisses the scar on her shoulder, confirming, remembering, the feel of her breast, heavy in his hand, nipple pebbled against his palm. The feel of his shoulders, strengthened, warm against her fingers, the points of her fingers digging into his muscles as he licks a trail, kisses at trail, down her chest, enveloping one of her nipples in the heat of his mouth.

And knowledge. Somewhere, as her hands move down his sides, down his hip, around to kneed at the flesh of thigh, and his knowledge, his mouth moving from her breast, down the slight concave of her stomach, across the slight rise of her rib, down to the hair that is heated.

Welcoming.

And the taste of her, the smell of her, the brilliance of lavender, of autumn, it tears at him, and he reminds himself, his tongue dipping down, finding that swollen nub and playing with it, reminds himself that he must take it slow. Wanting, even as he grins at the sudden gasp of pleasure from her mouth, that he wants to worship this witch, this beautiful, wonderful, witch.

His witch.

The knowledge causing him to growl and nip at her inner thigh with his teeth.

The sensation, combined with his fingers slicking through her folds, passion gathering in her belly, low and deep, and pushing further and further, causing her to whimper, fingers coming to his hair and holding there.

Just there, the silkiness under her hands as he plays her, so eloquently, ever so gracefully, plays her. Urging her magic, the deep swell and circling of desire, to gather, at the base of her spine, stroking it, higher and higher with every finger twitch, with every piercing of his tongue around her nub.

Taking her into his mouth, growling at the feel of her hands in his hair, at the taste of her, at the moans moving across his body as she responds to his attentions. Fingers, licking, sweeping, tongue moving with wicked knowledge across the swollen nerves and then into her core, once more at her nub and nip of his teeth, until it burns, a rise of pleasure, of pressure, focusing until it bursts about her.

And she calls out, her body arching upwards, her hands digging into his hair, calling out his name and his name said with such pleasure, with such abandon, with such a voice causes him to tighten to an almost unbearable point.

And still, between her legs, he bites once more, a soft bite, along her inner thigh, just one more time, before moving up her with slow kisses, with slow hands, stroking that pleasure, that feel of him about her once more.

Until he is hovering above her, eyes the colour of quicksilver looking down on her with such gentle care that it causes her chest to contract, her eyes to once more tear, because everything he feels, is there, right there in him and she sees it, and the trust he has in her its almost too much, the love, almost too much.

She reaches up with hands, cradling his face, and then curves up to kiss him, a long slow kiss, a thanks, a confirmation. He doesn't know, doesn't care, the desire he has for her overwhelming in its intensity.

His hands, elbows propping him up on either side of her head, play with her hair.

Staring down at her. His lips curving into a smile, body positioned so she can feel him, a breath away, her body unconsciously arching upwards to make the contact, her need of him a slow burn deep in what she is.

"You are so incredibly beautiful," he says, to her, scanning her face with his, even as he slowly enters hers, slowly, methodically, inch by inch.

She groans, barely able to keep her eyes open under the feel of him, filling her, the climax from before warming her, throbbing still, and she feels him as a piece of herself.

Stopping when he is fully within her, and then retreating.

His name, a whimper in her breath.

Draco slides almost all the way out, the tip just barely there, a pressure, and Hermione groans, biting her lip in an effort not to break the moment, even though her body is screaming at him, the need for him something that is almost threatening to take over.

Almost too much.

He moves forward, slowly, his own breath barely controlled, his voice strangled, but still, not closing his eyes, not looking away, staring down into dark brown eyes nearly black in the firelight.

"I am going to make love to you now, Hermione," he says, and his voice slides about her person, that voice, dark silk about her and she shivers at it, at the pleasure of it, even as he fills her, body melding to hers.

And she cups his face once more, cups it, bringing her body up so every piece of her, every part of her body is in contact with his, kissing him, just a kiss, just lips.

"I love you." She whispers as she breaks the kiss, the murmur against his lips.

He leans back, leans back, stilling inside of her, studying her face, studying everything about her.

"As do I." He says and those words, they are full. Heavy.

"As do I." He repeats.

His forehead coming down and meeting hers, as he slowly starts to move, slowly, his hands coming around her body, coming around her person, to pull her into him, his rhythm not losing its smoothness, just increasing its speed, their lips meeting, as everything, just everything, between them, is between them, their magic, their desire, their love.

Everything between them.

And when the climax hits them its simultaneous, a growl, a shout, names, magic, intertwined, combining about them, the intensity of it causing their magic to shutter, combined as it is, shutter and burst, and the brilliance of it glows in the darkness of the room.


	38. Chapter 38

When Hermione feels the first strains of consciousness, an almost overwhelming wave of panic rolls through her mind. It is a dark panic she does not understand, does not comprehend, and that does not go away until she feels an arm, strong and precise, about her belly, pulling her closer to a chest that is warm and solid.

The panic slowly ebbs away.

Realising this time, finally, she does not wake alone.

When the arm is followed by a slight pressing of lips against the back of her neck, Hermione feels a warmth, secure as she snuggles her bum back against the man at her back, and when that arms tightens just a little more, she allows herself to fall back into sleep.

Secure.

Warmth.

Allowing her sleep to take on the colours of her magic, but without the dreams that have visited her for the last ten years. Without the feeling of incompleteness, of unreality, that has haunted for such a very long time.

Swirling magic, but peace, calmness, a liquid pool in the middle of a moon-lit forest.

Hermione sleeps.

Even as Draco holds her close, feeling the smooth rise and fall of her breath in front of him. The feel of her skin under his own, against his own, and something long frigid in its completeness, long sustained because of his past, who he is - was - loosens.

Not disappearing. No, never disappearing, but lying down, resting, forgetting the world.

If only for a moment.

But a moment longer than he has ever had before.

The irony of the situation is not lost on Draco as he stares into the leaping flames in the fireplace holding his witch, finally holding his witch, marvelling at it all.

The Slytherin in him is very pleased indeed, even as the Malfoy part of him preens in triumph.

His witch.

But then sobering. The reality. The heaviness of it, the completeness of it.

Lying here. With him too.

And he holds her close to his body because all that he is, and all that he ever was, the better part of him, is lying next to him, and all he wants to do is close his eyes and forget the world.

If only for a moment.

But such is, and will never be, the fate of one Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. As dawn preens over them with soft layers of grey daylight, there is a peck at the window, a peck followed by more pecks.

The pecking is insistent enough to wake Hermione, who stirs in the arms of Draco as she opens her eye and tries to see through the mass of curls about her face who exactly is demanding entrance on this morning.

She will have his arse.

Draco feels her indignation through their magic and the slight stiffening of her body, smiling for a moment before leaning down and catching her ear with his mouth, nibbling. She starts and then moans back into him, all indignation melting away.

His breathe along the side of her neck does decidedly delicious things to her body.

"I believe, my love," Draco whispers along her neck, over her collarbone, "We have an owl at our window."

Hermione, eyes closed now, delighting in the feel of his mouth, incoherently mumbles something that sounds surprisingly like several different curse words all directed towards the owl still pecking at the window.

Draco, smiling against her skin, "What was that?"

Hermione turns around then to face him; the feel of her breasts on his chest and her hands suddenly circling his waist leaves very little thought in Draco's head.

Even as she speaks.

"I said that the lot of them can decidedly fuck off."

Her face grumpy and mischievous, eyes warm and liquid, meeting his, the words, so unlike her, a catalyst. A slight quirk of her eyebrow and Draco is lost, smiling stupidly he knows, as one hand moves the curls from her face so he can attack her lips with his own.

But the owl does not leave and the pecking becomes more insistent. Draco pulls away with a few choice words of his own, rolling out of the covers and into the chill of the morning to let the persistent, and very annoying, owl into the window.

The warmth about him slips away as he notices that the owl is from the Ministry and the parchment tied about his leg is official.

Draco has spent all night making love to a woman he thought he'd lost, and ease and relaxation is in every line of his naked form. Hermione stares at him, her eyes lingering over the swell of his shoulders, the lean line of his backside, the arms, strong and sure. She feels the now familiar warmth of desire pooling in her centre again, wondering even as she does if it will ever go away.

Until she sees that relaxed backside straighten, and the muscles along what was an easy face tighten.

Hermione feels the sudden circling of their magic, shadowed, growing deeper into darkness.

"What is it?" She asks, pulling herself into a sitting position, the blankets about her, pulling one up to cover her chest from the cold, but also as a shield against the shuttered look in Draco's eye as he turns and looks at her.

"Potter has sent us an official invitation to a council meeting that is being held to discuss the new developments in our project."

Hermione tilts her head slightly to look at the man standing naked against the window.

"Okay." She says slowly, not understanding entirely what the matter is. "We knew this was coming after what happened with Lily."

Draco scowls suddenly, a swift scowl that moves over his features before being replaced by the familiar mask of nothing. Though he can't help but pull a hand through his hair.

"Yes. But this an official invitation." A smirk then, slightly, just enough to cause little pin pricks of irritation along Hermione's nerve. "You have never had an official invitation have you?"

Hermione pulls the cover closer to her chest, narrowing her eyes slightly, raising her chin slightly. "No. I haven't." And then narrowing her eyes even further when the smirk does not go away but only grows slightly. "Honestly, are you going to tell me what an official invitation is or are you going to stand there like an arse with that stupid smirk on your face."

Draco shakes his head in mock woe, "And they say she is the smartest witch."

Hermione growls and picks up the pillow next to her, throwing it at his head.

Draco easily catches it, letting the parchment fall to the floor, and stalks towards the bed, pillow in hand.

Hermione feels a jump of something, not nerves, not exactly, but something heated, primitive, watching the lean man with the shock of white hair walking towards her. A predator, she thinks, watching him.

He attacks her with a quick squeak from her and a growl from him, and for several moments they forget about the parchment on the floor, hands and lips doing all the talking until they are once more wrapped up in covers, wrapped up in themselves.

Hermione strokes the arm that holds her close, one finger tracing the contours of the muscle in his forearm.

"So, what is an official invitation?" She asks, hating to break the moment but not able to stop the question.

A slight stiffening behind her, and she wonders briefly if he will pull away.

He does not, though he doesn't regain the languid ease of before.

Draco buries his face in the curls in front of him, inhaling her scent before answering.

"We are under inquiry," he says, quietly.

Hermione turns in his arms to look up at him in surprise. "Inquiry? As in official?"

Draco looks down on his witch, smiling slightly at the alarm in her voice. Bringing a finger up to trace the line of her jaw, across the lip that parts just slightly under the pressure.

It stabs him, that simple gesture, so unknowing, so trusting.

He lets his finger drop.

"Yes. I am assuming that there is a reason, but we are being officially recalled to the Ministry to answer questions regarding our project, and more than likely, regarding what took place ten years ago."

A small line of thought, concentration, appears between Hermione's eyes as she thinks on his words. "Well, that is not so bad then. The Board knows why we did it; they can hardly hold us accountable for the aftermath, or if they do, the results far outweigh what is taking place now."

Draco feels something dark, forbidding, lashing about under his ribs as he places a kiss on that line of concentration between her eyes.

He wonders how this woman has existed so long thinking so good of everyone about her.

She must have felt some of his condensation because she stiffens slightly in his arms, looking up at him again, meeting his eyes.

"What?" She almost snaps, almost.

Draco brings his hand up and cups her face, rubbing his thumb along the smooth expanse of her cheek. "I don't think it's that easy."

Hermione looking confused then, even as she leans slightly into his hand. "Why ever not?"

Draco feels that forbidding again. He lets his hand fall. "Because, Hermione, they don't want to remember what we had to do; they don't want to remember the dark that exists, that existed. They are not going to remember the reasons behind it because they don't want to."

Hermione sits up then, looking down at him even as she shakes her head, curls moving about her face. "What are you talking about? Of course they remember. How can they not remember?"

Draco props his head up with a hand, thinking her glorious even as she glares down at him. But a part of him aches at the trust she has in her friends, in Potter, in Minerva.

"Because they don't want to and they don't have to."

Hermione looks away from him. "That's rubbish," she says, though the heat is not there. She knows of what he speaks of, because even as Draco says the words, the image of Ginny in all her matrimonial and motherly bliss, rises up before her, followed closely by the image of the Minister of Magic and so many other faces.

Secure in their security. Secure in their knowledge that they defeated darkness once upon a time; therefore, obviously darkness no longer exists.

At least, that is what they choose to believe.

Lives, turned away from the shadows that hide about every person.

Draco sees her comes to the knowledge with a pang in his gut, but he does not speak while watching her.

Hermione finally turns to him, bitterness about her face. "So what? Are they going to charge us with a crime?"

Draco slowly shakes his head, or as much as he can while propped up by an elbow. "I don't think so. What crime have we committed? But I do think that we are going to probably be urged to find a solution. And find one quickly or else."

A huff of breath, in irritation lined with a small amount of anger. "We are already doing that."

Draco lets his head fall back to his arm. "Yes, but I suspect we are going to be given a rather shorter time line then we had before."

Hermione looks away, out the window at the grey morning. "When is the invite for?"

"Monday morning, first thing."

A pause.

"Right." She says to herself more than to the wizard at her back.

He is not surprised when Hermione pulls the covers away then, though his breath catches slightly at the sight of her skin free of all covers, the curves of her body displayed as she reaches for the clothes they'd thrown to the ground the previous night.

"What are you doing?" He asks deceptively, devouring her with his eyes.

Hermione did not turn around, not catching the slightly hungry tone in his words.

"Well, we obviously have some work to do. If they are going to be idiots we might as well give them something to be idiots over."

Draco laughs then, laughs because her tone is so pompous, so bossy, so incredibly Hermione.

She turns her head to scowl at him, knickers in one hand, a jumper in the other.

This causes him to laugh more, though when she pulls away in irritation, he grabs her wrist and pulls her back to bed, stopping her protest with his mouth, his hands coming about the curve of her waist.

"We have work to do," she tries, in a gasp when his mouth descends on her breast, playing it with his tongue.

"Hmm," he murmurs.

Hermione's head goes back, shivers running up and down her spine as her hands come down on his shoulders.

"But we can do it later," she says absently, as he kisses down from her breast, along her rib cage, over the slight rise of her belly.

Draco thinks that an excellent idea and pulls her back to bed.

Knickers and jumper forgotten once more on the floor.

Several hours later, the two of them are at the table in the kitchen, tea things between them, Hermione absently twirling her quill as she reads through a parchment, Draco thrumming his fingers along the wood of the table.

"Bloody hell." An exclamation. Quill flying from Hermione's fingers to the table as she glares at the parchment in front of her.

Draco raises one eyebrow at her, fingers stalling in their drumming.

She looks up from the parchment and glares at him. "There is nothing here, not a bloody thing."

Hermione puts a finger between her eyes and rubs. "There has to be something in how to retract the field of magic, anything at all. It just doesn't make sense. I should have died but I didn't, which probably has something to do with the bloodstones, part of the blood magic, and I know if we could just find that first part of the spell, before your megalomaniac and twisted ancestor got a hold of it and made it into a scary Malfoy thing, we could figure it out."

Hermione drops her head to the table, eyes closed, magic swirling about in the blackness.

"Megalomaniac and twisted?" Draco says dryly.

"You know what I mean," comes the muffled reply from across him.

Draco nods his head, though he doesn't agree with her out loud, looking back down at the parchment he'd been reading.

Hermione looks up at him, rising her head just slightly to look through her curls. Draco feels the look but does not acknowledge it with a glance.

A moment. The feeling of Hermione thinking tangible in the room.

Then.

"What did you think you would find at your father's house?"

Draco does not wince, though only through years of training himself not to. He keeps his eyes resolutely on the parchment in front of him, voice level, controlled. "I remember a book there, as a child."

Hermione straightens, putting her elbows on the table and supporting her chin with her hands. "What kind of book?"

Draco feels wariness move through his bones, along the side of his magic, pulsing, deep at the base of his spine. But he keeps his voice occupied, as if not really paying attention to the conversation. As if he is paying more attention to the parchment in front of him – one that he is not reading.

"A family book, an heirloom, that belonged to my mother."

Hermione studies his face; the man across from her, the ease of his words, the neutral expression on his features. If it weren't for the magic between them, the compulsion tight and throbbing, she would think he is perfectly all right with the conversation. As it is, she can feel the tension there.

Tangible.

Thus Hermione's next question is soft.

"Why do you think it's important?"

A slight tremor, alongside the hand that picks up the tea, just slight, barely there, barely discernable.

Hermione catches it, though very few would.

"I don't know."

Hermione does not move, keeping her chin in her palms, studying Draco.

He feels her eyes, but sips his tea and does not look at her.

"You do."

The teacup is placed precisely back on the table.

Hermione continues. "If you know something, something that you think will help…" She lets her sentence trail off, feeling the tightening of their magic, the sudden onset of cold, fury, ice.

Though she knows it's not towards her but towards something else, something hidden behind that cool façade.

"My mother had a book. She always read it when we went to that home, in the summer mostly, just the two of us. A love story, she called it, of our family, though she never quite said more than that."

A moment. Silence between them. Hermione wants nothing more than to gather the man across from her in her arms and hold him close until the frigid cold she feels along their shadows slips away.

But she stays in her seat.

Waiting.

He does not say anything more.

She breaks the silence. "You know it is still at the house?"

When he shakes his head slightly, the light of the fire plays in the white strands of his hair and Hermione's breath catches at the sight, something so elemental pulling at her centre. Pulling.

"I'm not certain, but she always left the book." A pause. Horrid. Rigid. Filled with something dark and heavy.

Then.

"My father would not have approved."

So many meanings in those words.

Hermione does not immediately answer nor continue the conversation. Watching him, grazing his face with her look.

Caught, when he glances up and meets her eyes with his own. Her breath stops to see the emotion there, quickly, a glimpse, but still there, before the Malfoy mask falls in place.

Again. Her question.

"Why do you think it's important?"

Draco looks away again, over her shoulder, at the grey day, the sky heavy, pregnant with moisture that has, so far, refused to break into rain.

"A feeling," he finally says, glancing at her and then away again.

Hermione finds that she understands somehow. She has realised, a long time ago, that some times brilliance comes in moments of inspiration.

"So we get the book."

Stated, a matter of fact.

A harsh bark of laughter between them.

"I am forbidden to go there, don't you remember?"

Hermione letting her arms fall to the tabletop as she shakes her head. "So I will go."

An ironic twist to Draco's lips, a hatred that flashes about her in an instant of freezing emotion.

"Do not doubt, Hermione, that if you pass the threshold of my father's house that he will kill you. Though he might be a squib, he is still a powerful man. I have no doubt about that."

Hermione's reaction is indignation, quickly followed by annoyance. "I can take care of myself."

A sudden hand, snaking across to grab her wrists, eyes glaring, hard, rigid, into her own.

"You will not go to that house."

Ice chips. Falling between them.

Again.

Narrowing her eyes, glaring at him, and then catching it, just the slight emotion, just barely noticeable.

Fear.

For her.

And all her annoyance vanishes.

She turns her arm so that his hand falls into her, lacing their fingers together.

"No. I won't. Not alone."

Draco watches her warily, knowing her too well, knowing already that this is not the end of the matter.

Squeezing his hand in hers.

"But what about Severus?"

Draco shakes his head, "He looked, but he doesn't know the house."

A pause.

A tightening even more of their fingers.

"But you do."

A statement more than a question.

Draco looks down at their hands, away from her eyes, away from her face.

"I do."

A pause.

A long moment as Hermione looks on the wizard staring down at their interlocked hands. A quiver in her chest, the slow and easy movement of her heart in her chest settling, even as he looks up and meets her gaze.

"I suppose we have somewhere to be then," he says quietly, though there is bitterness under the control, bitterness, irony.

Hermione's smile is gentle, understanding, filled with so much between them.

"Can you?" She asks, encryptive, but knowing he will understand.

A smile, smirk, twisted, pain, pulling at her. Pulling. Hard.

"Do you mean, will I be able to control the desire to kill him?"

The question. Heavy between them.

"Yes."

She answers.

Another twist of his mouth.

She brings up their joined hands and kisses his knuckles. The movement surprises him and he looks up at her, meeting her eyes.

"I will be there," she says.

A smart comment, a retort, on the tip of his tongue, that disappears as soon as it is made known.

Because he needs her to be there, and he is past the point of denying it.

She kisses his knuckles once more. Hot breath against the sensitive nerves there, along his wrist.

"We will have to convince Severus," he says, though it is obvious.

She nods in reply. "Of course. To dismantle the wards."

He nods in return.

"I could go," he starts, "just with Severus." A pause, "You would be safer never having to see my father."

History, weighing down on them. Their history. Their past.

So very heavy.

Hermione places their joined hands on the table, examining their fingers intertwined.

"I won't leave you."

Her words are said before she can think what they mean, or even where they came from.

Feeling his magic, then, suddenly, an onslaught of magic.

Hermione does not look up.

She continues. "Not then. Not…" Looking up at him, meeting his eyes. "Not ever."

Draco studies her face. Studies it and she lets him, open to him, the magic between them pulsing.

She sees him recognize her words, sees him process them, the brief flash of relief, of love, of something else, moving across his features before he drops his eyes to their hands.

A slight smile along his lips, pained though, and she wonders at the pain even as this time he is the one to bring their joined hands up, lips descending on her knuckles.

"Of course," murmured there, against her skin. Words softly spoken, so softly that she does not hear the slight catch to his voice.


	39. Chapter 39

"No."

One word spoken in the dark tones of Severus Snape.

Dark eyes looking back and forth between his Godson and his former star pupil.

"We need the book, Severus," Hermione tries, meeting his eyes with her own and not flinching at the look there.

Though only barely.

"Then I will get it for you. Under no circumstances will either of you approach that house. I strictly forbid it."

Draco leans casually against the door jam and smirks.

"Since when was the last time I actually listened to you, Godfather?"

A flash of power as the dark man sitting in front of the fire controls the need to throttle his Godson.

Throttle him within an inch of his life.

Severus brings his hands up, steepled, pressed against his lips as he looks back at Draco. He is not surprised, and slightly proud, when the younger man does not flinch nor move under the cold gaze.

Though he does not say it or even register the emotions across his tightly controlled face. A control that, now, is like breathing. Without thought.

"So, you believe yourself powerful enough to pass through my wards?" The question, purred, dangerous.

Hermione shivers although Draco does not react.

"If I have to, I will get through the wards."

The reply is lazy. Deceptive. Said with a slight smirk along side the younger wizard's mouth.

Hermione tenses in the chair next to Severus, her hand itching for her wand though she does not actually make for it.

One dark eyebrow rises and a similar smirk plays across Severus' face. "I would dearly love to see that."

Quiet words. Malevolent.

"You think I can't?" says Draco.

A slight shrug of black clad shoulders.

"I didn't say that. I just," a pause, dangerous, Slytherin, "would like to see you."

Hermione rolls her eyes then, realizing, even as her muscles relax and her hand moves away from her wand, what this is between the two men.

Irritation takes the place where fear once stood.

"Honestly," she says, breaking their gazes, both eyes looking at her in surprise. "I do not have the time nor the inclination to sit hear and watch you two argue about who has the bigger dangly bits."

Surprise is apparent on both their faces, one dark, one light, and at any other time it would have caused Hermione to laugh. Hard and long. But today she is still irritated and only glares, the humour lost on her for the moment.

She looks to the older wizard first. "Severus, we need that book. Draco is the only one that knows the house so he needs to be the one that goes there. We need your help to get through the wards."

Hermione turns her glare on Draco. "And Draco, quit trying to annoy your Godfather. We need his help, and both you and I know that we couldn't get through his wards without some nasty side effects. So just, stop, okay?"

The two men stare at the witch before looking back to one another, sharing a look, both of them raising eyebrows in tandem.

"Scary."

Severus says.

Draco nods in agreement.

Hermione sighs. Loudly.

A brief smile, ever so brief, graces the ex-Death Eater's face before once again being replaced by a neutral expression.

"What is this book that you feel you need?" He asks, looking at Draco but asking the question of the woman sitting in the chair next to him.

She answers.

"It was Draco's mother's."

A slight rise of an eyebrow. "Your mother had many books."

This time the words are directed towards Draco.

The white haired man nods. "Yes." A pause, a brief glance towards Hermione, then back at Severus. "Yes, but this was one my father did not approve of."

A knowing look then, slowly, across the dark man's face. Thoughtful.

Hermione glances back and forth between the two men, knowing distinctly that she is missing something of this conversation.

Draco must have felt her reaction, her irritation, because he flashes her with a brief smile of amusement. Amusement that makes her scowl back.

The smile grows slightly.

Draco explains, the smile falling away. "My mother almost never went against my father's wishes. The fact that she read this book, knowing that he did not approve, is important."

Hermione still does not understand and shakes her head slightly, curls bouncing about her face.

Draco has to push away the desire to take those curls and run his hands through them.

He stays leaning against the doorframe.

Continuing his explanation.

"My father, in addition, could almost never say no to my mother."

Hermione's expression clears and Draco is even more enchanted to see how the sudden realization, sudden knowledge, lights up her face.

She smiles at him. "So, not only did she go against your father's wishes, but it is remarkable that he forbid it in the first place."

"Just so, Miss Granger." Severus says from his seat, looking on his Godson in contemplation. "Just so."

Draco looks back at the older wizard.

A moment, where Severus stares at his Godson, though Draco gets the distinct impression that his Godfather is not actually looking at him, but somewhere else.

Somewhere that causes the slightest amount of emotion to run across the otherwise blank features of the older man.

Pain.

Draco sees it for the briefest of moments before it disappears.

He would not have caught it except for his very close familiarity with the expression, and wonders at it, knowing it is not something to bring up in front of Hermione. Draco stays silent on the question that suddenly moves across his tongue.

"Do you know what this book was?" Severus asks, finally breaking the silence.

Draco looks away from the older man's dark gaze, towards the fire, remembering with a clarity his mother sitting in her chair in the library, the book in front of her face and a smile about her lips. He could not have been more then eight years old, already the Malfoy prince but not quite under his father's rule. At least, not completely.

The memory is seared into his mind. The image of her eyes, dark blue, and the hair so very much like his own.

A soft expression on her face as she looked at him, around her mouth that smiled at him, the eyes that wrinkled, just ever so slightly on either side of long eyelashes.

Really, the last time he saw such a look, such softness in her face.

He stirs from his memory, noticing both Hermione and Severus' eyes are on him. One in gentle understanding, the other inscrutable.

"A book of love, she called it." He answers. "A love story of our family," he adds.

Those long Potion Master's fingers coming up to settle against thin lips once more. "Ah, so the two of you have figured out the significance of the bloodstones."

Hermione answers. "Not entirely, though we have our theories."

The dark gaze moving to the woman sitting next to him. "And they are?"

Hermione shifts suddenly underneath the knowing gaze of her former professor. "The blood binding," she answers.

A smirk, behind the steepled fingers. "And?"

Hermione feels the colour moving across her features. A part of herself, that part that is not the older woman but hangs on to the memory of her younger self, is embarrassed.

But she answers.

"The bloodstones were a result of the binding, a binding that resulted because…" Here she pauses, and looks up at Draco, catching the sudden gentle look of quicksilver eyes.

Continuing. "Because of how we felt about one another." A pause. Then. "How we feel about one another."

The smirk growing, eyes darkening, turning warm almost as Severus observed the two of them. "So, I am to understand that you dunderheads have finally gained your wits."

Hermione blushes even as Draco glowers at his Godfather, though the glower is half hearted and he is unable to hide the sudden glow about his eyes.

"I'm glad," Severus says then, voice always so dark, amazing in its gentleness, in its warmth. "Very glad."

A pause.

Then seriousness. "But I am also to understand that though this is a welcome realization for the two of you, it has not however, lessened the Ministry's desire to find a solution to this unique problem."

Draco's face grimaces, the twist to his lip decidedly not pleasant. "We've been officially invited to a council."

Severus leans back in his chair. "An official invitation. I don't believe you have one of those since right after the war."

Draco does glower then. "Yes, thank you for reminding me."

Hermione shakes her head slightly. "This invitation business, I don't think I fully understand it. What happened the last time you were invited?" The quotation around the word 'invited' is clear in her voice.

Draco smirking in disgust, "I was arrested for three weeks."

All colour from Hermione's face drains away at his words. "What?" Then. "Why?"

"Because the Minister believed I was still using the Dark Arts and that I had several Dark artefacts in my home."

Severus snorting from where he sits.

Draco glaring at him.

Hermione smiling, colour moving once more into her face. "You did, didn't you?"

Draco shrugging, nonchalant, "Of course, I am a Malfoy after all."

Hermione shakes her head, looking very amused and very much like she would like to attack the man at the door and snog him senseless.

However, Severus intervenes. "I am sure there is nothing to concern yourself with, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter is, after all, your dearest friend."

The sentence drips sarcasm and Hermione shoots Severus an annoyed look.

"Thank you. I had forgotten that."

At one point in their history, the older man would have reacted quite violently to such words and tone; however, that man is no more and the one in his stead just laughs quietly, a slow methodical sound.

"Of course."

He replies.

Then sobers. Once more.

Piercing his Godson with a look again. "Then we have very little time to find this book?"

Hermione answers. "We would like to have it in case there is something there, so our report can be thorough and complete."

Severus turns his gaze on Hermione, pinning her. "You are planning on being in attendance."

Her chin moves slightly farther up in the air and her eyes narrow, just barely. "I will not have Draco go alone."

Severus studies her. "No, nor I. However, I will be with him."

Hermione looks away, looks to the man at the doorway watching the conversation with a detached air she knows well. His face shows her nothing and his eyes are carefully blank.

She looks back at Severus. "I realize that. However, I am coming."

"And if you are killed? Because you are a silly little girl?" The tone mocking.

Hermione bites down on her anger, bites down on it hard. She keeps her voice mild, though with a slight drip of her own mockery, spreading her hands out in front of her. "I have not been a silly little girl in a very long time, Severus."

She does not flinch as those fathomless eyes score her, tearing apart her mind even though he does not actually cast a spell and is not actually in her mind.

But she knows he can see everything on her face, and meets his eyes with her own, drowning for a moment in the darkness there, the blackness, so deep, a deeper darkness than she or Draco will ever know.

He looks away and Hermione lets out the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"Very well," Severus says, looking towards the fire.

"Thank you." Out of her mouth before she can stop it.

Severus does not acknowledge her words, does not even look over at the witch, his gaze moving and settling on Draco. The look steady on the younger wizard at the door.

"You do understand that if we do this, there is quite likely to be volatile reactions."

Draco keeps his gaze on his Godfather. "I am quite aware of that, sir."

It is the sir that speaks to Severus, the tone respectful, the words respectful. Studying his Godson. "You will keep your temper no matter what happens."

Draco smirking then. "I have learned control from the best, Godfather."

"Quite." Studying Draco in much the same way as he had studied Hermione, but gentler, almost tender.

Hermione catches the look and she is amazed by it, though she says nothing aloud.

Severus rises then, graceful, even more so than his Godson, total and complete control in a man of black.

"Well then, I believe we have a visit to make to one Lucius Malfoy."

A smirk along the tall man's face.

"I'm sure he will be most pleased."


	40. Chapter 40

The wind moves about them with a restlessness that exactly mirrors the feeling in Hermione's stomach.

Nerves on edge, from the moment they Apparated to the beach outside of Severus' wards.

"Where are we?" she asks quietly, moving, following the backside of Draco who, in turn, follows his Godfather.

She tries to keep pace with them, but their steps are long, eerily silent against the waves moving about the cliffs.

"Are we close to the other house?" Hermione asks, pulling herself up onto one of the large boulders in order to reach a steep path that leads upwards into the night.

Draco turns, his face tight in the little of light of stars above their heads. Though Hermione does not need the light to know that he is struggling against the anger, against the fury, against so many different emotions that it is hard for her to pick them out and label them.

"We are close' the two houses were never but a couple day journey by motor."

Hermione takes the hand that Draco holds out for her to climb up a particularly steep part of the slope, her trainers slipping along the wet stone.

"You know how to drive?" The question asked even before she can recall how the words sound.

A tense nod from the man in front of her shows that he is not paying much attention as it is and he is not paying enough attention to be upset by her words or the tone she says them in.

He drops her hand and she continues without assistance, a part of her wanting to snap at him, wanting him to react out whatever is going on behind the mask he has on, the cloak of the Malfoy prince he has put about his shoulders. However, knowing, at the same time, instinctively perhaps, that it is, for the preservation of so many different things, that those precautions are in place.

A part of her is proud of the man walking in front of her.

Even if another part of her scared of what is to come. And what it could mean.

Hermione feels the wards as soon as she comes over the top of the cliff. Barely able to stand and not turn away, the feeling of sickness, of a torrid headache, ripping through her body. She watches, eyes watering as the tall dark man in front of them waves his hand, a twitch of wrist, hand, his ebony wand barely apparent in the darkness of the night.

When the wards fall Hermione feels instantly better, normalcy pouring through every part of her body, going limp for a moment at the relief of having such pain taken away.

"Come on," a tense voice, pulling her from her relief, making her look up. She wants to catch his eye, she wants to catch his hand, hold it to her, tell him- well, tell him anything that would allow him to find comfort.

Hermione knows, in a way, the concern she feels for him, the focus she is placing on him, is in order to keep her own mind from going off on what it means that she is here. To keep herself in absolute check against the fear and the fury that is slowly gathering in her belly as they walk closer to the house that she now can just make out in the distance.

A run down home, slowly giving in to the restless winds from the sea.

A small smile, bitter, tinged with something dark, shadowed, all together unlike the woman, but like her just the same. It graces her face for a moment, a sliding about her lips, the tightening of her magic.

When no one is asking, or looking, Hermione wishes for Lucius' death, the kiss of a dementor and all that entails, though, on principle, she should find it wrong. However, walking towards the run down home with the knowledge that absolutely no magic is allowed makes her smile that smile.

Its brilliant in the justification of it.

Though the feeling slowly moves away as they come to the house steps.

Hermione does not watch Severus take down the rest of the wards, she, instead watches Draco, tracing the contours of his face, his shoulders, the relaxed nature of his hands at his side. All relaxed, all deceptive.

Reminding her of the one time, the one and only time she had seen him at a Death Eater meeting. A near miss, one of the few times that she went with Harry and Ron to gather information on a Horcrux. They'd Apparated into a clearing, near a forest, somewhere Ron and Harry had been several times before. The cave they were interested in was a little ways away and without thought to stealth, though, so many months into the war, stealth had almost come second nature, they'd moved through the trees towards the cave.

Harry had stopped them with a raised hand, and she can remember, even now, the feel of panic gathering in her chest as she watched Harry drop to the ground in a swift movement. She'd followed only when Ron had grabbed her hand and dragged her down.

She'd looked for him, though at the time she had not thought that's what she did. But she had, crawling on her belly to peer through the brush at the gathering of dark cloaked men, their faces not hidden by masks, not on that night at least.

She'd looked for the shock of white hair against the darkness and she saw him almost immediately, slightly behind the tall dark form of his mentor.

Studying him, from where she lay, trying to calm her breath even as the blood had pounded in her ears. He'd looked calm, an easy stance, slightly slouched, slightly arrogant, even standing in front of the man who had made him kill his mother, who had led him into certain death again and again. Who he had seen torture, rape, maim, and kill, he stood. Easy. Malfoy prince. Slytherin hair.

Perfectly groomed. With a face of deceptive calmness.

It had shocked her, at the time, looking back, she can remember the almost feel of betrayal moving through her system even as Harry had hissed for them to move, retreat, back away from what was taking place.

A betrayal, to see how easy he was in the midst of those who did such things. The knowledge, that he too did those things, albeit for the Order, to bring important information, but still, he did… things.

But another feeling, as the three of them had made their way through the forest. A feeling of panic, not for their discover, not because they were running away from a very bad situation, or the making of one, no panic for Draco. Knowledge, that if, for some reason, the control in which he held himself would break that he would die.

And not easily.

That night, when he came back from the meeting in peace she had hugged him. Not in front of anyone, no, when he excused himself from the kitchen to clean up, she'd followed him. He'd turned, not saying a word, those gray eyes looking on her with an expression she couldn't read. An expression that had nothing to do with her, but with what had taken place. The same expression he had every time he came back.

Barely there. Still in control.

Hermione had seen it and before she knew anything she'd wrapped her arms around him, thinking, perhaps he would shove her away, perhaps he would yell at her, call her names.

Tensing for him to do such a thing.

But he hadn't, standing still for a moment, before one arm came up slowly and curled about her shoulders, pulling her into his body.

For just a moment.

But long enough.

Hermione remembers this, all of it, in the instant before Severus opens the door to the house, in the instant that she looks on Draco and sees that look, barely there, but apparent.

Tired. Resolved.

For an instant in those gray eyes, before blinking out to the calm facade of someone that apparently feels nothing at all.

She reaches for his hand, reaching before she realizes it, to give the hand a squeeze, to ensure him she is right there, and will be.

But he moves before she can grasp those long fingers. Moving, to open the door instead of Severus.

The feel of his magic is the only indication of his anguish, thick, sluggish, a dark shadow of movements tightly controlled but all the more rebellious because of it. Hermione desperately hopes he can keep this control. Keep this dark magic in check.

She walks in after Severus, who walks in after Draco.

Hermione barely perceives the threadbare nature of the walls, barely realizes that the wood floors are slightly sloped and that the entire house creaks rather ominously under the onslaught of the wind off the coast.

She doesn't notice, her entire focus on Draco who stands in a doorway.

Hermione makes her way silently to his side, peering inwards, just slightly, just enough, looking into what appears to have been once a library, books scattered here and there, a fire in the grate, a desk that had seen much better days, two sagging worn chairs.

And Lucius Malfoy.

Her breath catches to see the man who killed her parents.

"What is the meaning of this Severus?" A harsh voice, made harsher by the years of disuse, though the command is still there, the arrogance is still there.

A pause. Pregnant, malevolent, horrid in its implications as the two Malfoys look upon one another for the first time in ten years.

One living.

One barely so.

"I thought you would be more pleased to see me, father." Draco says, and his tones are silk, darkness, rich and smooth through the room, a tone that would rival his mentor standing at his back.

Lucius looks on Draco for a moment, his eyes clearly unable to hide the emotions there, the panic, the embarrassment, but also, the pain. So very, very much pain.

Hermione's breath catches to see it.

Lucius looks away from his son and pierces Severus with a look, distasteful, spiteful, and in a very real way, pouting.

"What is the meaning of this, Severus? I was of the understanding, the clear understanding, that no one but you and that foolish Potter boy were to know of my existence."

Hermione can't see Severus' face but when he speaks she can clearly hear a note of cruel amusement.

"It appears, old friend, that times are changing."

A silence, as the older Malfoy looks on Severus, before finally turning his gaze once more to Draco.

"What do you want?"

Blunt. Too the point. Not at all the elegant and cultured man of the past.

For a moment Hermione is given the distinct impression that Draco is gathering his magic for a retaliation, for revenge, can feel it pulling on her own magic, the pulse of it in her head, even as she tries to control her reaction to his magic. Fear swells in what the man in front of her is preparing to do.

Before it bleeds out, the magic falling away, the tension moving on, and once more she feels the tiredness, the complete hopelessness that has shadowed Draco's step since they Apparated.

"I need a book." He answers. Truthfully.

Lucius studying his son, his face expressionless even as the light plays on the harsh lines and plains of his face, highlighting the lank hair about his chin, falling to his shoulders. Giving stark confirmation of the thinness and decay of what was once one of the more powerful wizards in the world.

It gives Hermione a strange warm feeling of satisfaction.

And then a stab of guilt knowing that Draco can feel her reaction just as well as if it was said out loud.

Though she does not get an answering emotion from him and he still has not looked away from his father.

Face still carefully blank.

"What book?" Lucius finally asks.

A moment, where Hermione knows Draco is wondering how best to answer the question, how best to approach the situation.

He goes for blunt. "One of my mother's."

It is not Hermione's imagination when the all ready pale man grows slightly paler, noticing that the long skeletal hands that grasp the chair arms tighten causing the knuckles to stand out in contrast.

"There are no books of your mother's here. There is nothing of your mother's here." The tone is normal, however, or as normal as can be for a man who has not had company in ten years but for a tall, dark and thoroughly forbidding wizard.

That same dark and forbidding wizard stands just inside the library, easy in his stance though she can read, even from where she stands in the shadows, the slight tension in his shoulders.

She understands, realizing just then that at some point she had gone for her wand and it now is grasped in her own white knuckled clutch.

The tension she feels off the young wizard is trying on her magic, and with Lucius' words she feels the pain as if it were here own. A slicing pain, through her mind, down her spine, brilliant in its heat. She forces the moan down her throat by placing her wandless hand, curled into a fist, against her mouth and closing her eyes.

She knows the pain comes from Draco, though he did not flinch at the words and still stands lazy in the doorway.

Hermione has never fully understood the man's control and she is now amazed by it.

In awe of it.

Even as she tries to control her overwhelming desire to hex Lucius herself.

Draco does not respond to his father's words and Hermione remembers him telling her once that silence is sometime the greatest of weapons.

It takes a surprisingly small amount of time for Lucius to break, one of those skeletal hands, rising up in tremors to push back hair from his face. At one point the gesture would have been regal, haughty. Right then it is desperate and pathetic.

"There is at trunk." Lucius starts, placing his hand once more on the arm of the chair. "Upstairs in the front bedroom. It is all that is left of your mother here."

The words are quiet, barely spoken.

Draco stares at his father. Stares hard, anger in check, hatred in check.

But just barely.

He nods once and turns on his heels, moving towards the stairway and up before Hermione even realizes he does so.

She follows him, taking the stairs two at a time in order to catch up with him, leaving Severus to Lucius, and good riddance.

Gaining the second story she sees him disappear into a room and she walks quietly but quickly to the door, pushing it slightly open and stopping still to see the normally so very composed man shaking, one hand placed against the windowsill, the other placed against the wall, forehead against the glass.

Hermione immediately goes to him, echoes of her memory before drifting through her mind as she presses her body close to his back, wrapping her arms around his middle.

He stiffens for a moment, stiffens and Hermione prepares to be told off, but as before, the body she presses against relaxes into her.

She presses her cheek against the roughness of his black cloak and holds him, gently, her magic, their magic, circling about them as she holds him up both physically and magically.

No words are spoken, standing together, the small witch curled about the backside of the taller wizard, her hands arms around his waist, hands grasped in front of him.

Holding him.

And slowly she feels the shaking subside, both magically and physically, slowly she feels the composure reextert itself and reluctantly she lets go, taking a step backwards.

Draco turns and looks down on her, his face guarded, but not expressionless, not blank, pain clear in the dark swirl of storm cloud eyes and the tightness about his mouth.

Hermione puts a hand up and cups his cheek and for a moment he closes his eyes, for a moment he stands there with his cheek in her hand and Hermione feels a rush of emotion so very strong, so very protective, so righteous in its brilliance, and knows she would do anything for this wizard.

Absolutely anything at all.

Though she doesn't say it, and when he turns to place a kiss in her palm she holds back the sigh that wants to escape, the breath at such a tender action.

Even in the midst of what is taking place.

She lets her hand drop and Draco opens his eyes, meeting hers once more, briefly, quickly, before looking over her shoulder.

A trunk.

Against a wall, old battered, but shining where someone has taken the time to polish the old wood, polish the clasps so they gleam bronze in the dim light.

The knowledge that no one else but Lucius could have done it, that no one else had access but the woman's husband, is not lost on Hermione and when Draco opens the trunk and inside there is an orderliness to the contents. As if someone had carefully placed them within the trunk.

Hermione can once again feel Draco's magic pull about her, the blood magic almost roaring in her ears, but when he pulls out a gold ring engraved with markings his hands do not shake and his face displays no emotions.

"My mother's wedding ring." He answers for her though she has not, and would not, ask the question.

A flash of something, something primitive, elementary, remembering that the man kneeling in front of the trunk, holding his mother's wedding ring, was the same man that brought her to her death.

Feeling the need to do something, anything, feeling his magic so very heavy, weighing her down in its darkness, in its absolute, blackness. No longer just shadowed, but like oil, dark and thick, pooling between them.

She falls to her knees beside him and without thought, takes the ring, ignoring the sudden fury that crosses his face, ignoring him, as she looks into the trunk and sees other things, other personal belongings. A dress. Dried flowers. Hair clips.

Personal things.

Intimate things.

She gently lifts them from the trunk.

"What are you doing?" Hissed next to her.

She does not look over to where Draco is staring at her, feeling his gaze, his glare, even as his magic attacks her.

Hermione ignores it, pulling out a crocheted wedding veil.

"I am helping."

A pause.

"I don't need your help." A low murmur. A warning.

Hermione looks over then, placing silk gloves on top of the wedding veil, looking over at the face who is now glowering, who is holding himself in control, but barely. She puts a hand up to touch his cheek again but Draco flinches, and pulls away.

She lets her hand drop.

Looking back into the trunk and taking out a delicate silver necklace, a small perfectly detailed ruby snake hanging from it. "We don't have time," Hermione explains, gently, using her magic, their bond, to help her words, to make him listen. "I know this excruciating, I know, I understanding, I do, but we have to get the book." A pause then, out of compassion, out of love. "We can come back, later Draco, after this is done, after all is done, we will come back for this trunk."

She lays the necklace down with the other items.

"We will take the trunk now."

A decision.

Hermione finds herself shaking her head.

This time the explosion is not verbal, its magical, and she rocks on her knees from the impact of her anger.

She looks away from the trunk, meeting cold steel eyes once more.

"Don't you see Draco, this is all he has left."

A pause, a narrowing of eyes.

"He doesn't deserve even this."

Hermione tilting her head, curls moving about her face. "I know, I think so to, on some level, that he should be punished, but don't you see how this is taken care of, how the trunk is taken care of."

Struggling to find words that will not offend, that will not have the wizard next to her erupting in anger, in frustration, in pain.

But deciding, finally, the truth is the best.

"He loves her still, no matter what the past, or how it makes no sense. Draco, your father still loves your mother."

The fury, whipping about her in jagged slices of cold pain.

"He does not deserve to love my mother."

The words spoken in the silky tones of murder.

Hermione nods, not looking away from those eyes. "No, you are right, perhaps he doesn't, but he does, and you wont take away his memories."

His hands, curling at his side, ready to strike out, harm, demolish. Hermione knows, she can feel it through their bond.

"Why?"

A question, rather than something else, rather than a demand, a snort of disgust, a fury. A testament to the changes between them.

Hermione reaches up again and this time he lets her touch his cheek, her finger moving across his jaw, over his lips.

"Because you are a better man than that."

Words, whispered in the silence of the room.

Draco stares at her and she sees those steel grey eyes soften, not to the quicksilver she loves so much, but to the storm clouds of earlier.

Hermione drops her hand away but before she can turn back to the trunk to begin their search anew Draco reaches over with his own hands, cups her face, palms against her cheeks and kisses.

Brutally.

A confirmation.

A thanks.

So much.

And she willingly opens to the assault, her own hands coming up to run through the silky strands of hair, her body instantly humming at the contact.

She just barely strangles the groan when he pulls away, putting his forehead against hers.

Stilling. Sharing breath.

And then pulling away.

The go back to the trunk without another word until several moments later Draco lets out a hiss of breath and pulls, from under another lovely dress, an old looking book, leather, worn around the edges.

"Is that it?" Hermione whispers, not sure why she whispers but feeling as if it is appropriate.

Draco nods almost in reverence, opening it quickly, and then shutting it almost as quickly.

Hermione looks up at him in surprise.

"Later," he explains. "I will take this, nothing else, but I will take this."

She nods, understanding.

The put the rest of the items back into the trunk. Draco lays a hand on the top piece of cloth, a blue silk that, if Hermione remembers correctly, would have exactly matched Narcissa's eyes.

Hermione feels her own eyes twinge in tears, seeing Draco close his, before opening them and gently shutting the top of the trunk.

They rise in tandum and move back down the stairs.

Lucius and Severus are sitting in the library, across from each other, staring at one another. Lucius, clearly annoyed, Severus as easily relaxed as always.

Lucius glances towards the door when he hears the noise, seeing his son, book in hand.

"You found it then?" He asks, and something in his voice is broken, like shattered pieces of glass long left out in the elements, duller than they once were.

"Yes."

One word. Hermione moves slightly at the tone of it, a movement she should have not made, as Lucius immediately heard it, and saw it, rising to his feet and raising a wandless hand almost immediately.

If the suddenness of his actions did not startle her so, Hermione would have found the older man's automatic defensive stance amusing.

As it is, she could just react, pulling her own wand, holding it easily in her grasp, even as she realizes that Draco stands in front of her.

Blocking her.

Shielding her.

The action is not lost on his father and a sneer, very much old, disdainful, arrogant. "So, you are protecting mudblood whores now?"

Draco's response immediately, rising a hand, with a wand, and the older man stumbles backwards, hitting his chair and immediately bound to it by thick ropes around his wrists and ankles.

The look on Lucius' face is shock and horror.

Draco walks slowly forward, wand now in his hand, though clearly he did not need it.

"Father, tut, tut, having to live like a Muggle, I would think you would have more respect for them now."

The older man's gaze narrows as he watches his son walk towards him, though he does not speak a word. Two spots of colour highlight his cheekbones and his all ready thin mouth is barely visible in his face.

Draco stops just in front of his father, looking down on his, the difference between them substantial now they stand so close.

One young, virile, alive, passion burning in his eyes.

The other world worn, barely living, and then living a life over bare existence.

"This, father, is Hermione Granger. In a few days I am going to ask her to be my wife. If she accepts then she will be the new mistress of Malfoy Manor, the new Mistress Malfoy in general. As you are dying and I have no desire ever to see you again, there is not much reason for me to care about your opinion on the matter one way or another, but, if for some strange reason, some weird stroke of fate, I do see you again, and you call her a mudblood, or anything else, I will kill you, and make no mistake that I can." A pause. A leer. "After all father, you were the one who taught me to murder."

The words. Making the elder Malfoy pale even further if such a thing is possible.

Hermione stares at Draco speechless. His words echoing about her mind as she looks on the man confronting his father.

A moment of silence, until Severus breaks the spell by standing up.

"We are done here then?" A drawl, easy, sarcasm just barely underlining the question.

"Yes." Draco says, turning his back on his father, on the stricken and pained expression there, on the murder still rushing through his veins.

Turns his back and goes to Hermione, lacing her hand with his own without thought, without any other need than to have contact with her.

His rock in the storm moving about his mind, his magic, his being.

She takes it without hesitation.

They leave the house, Severus following them, closing the door with a quiet click, creating the wards once more on the doors and the windows.

Draco and Hermione do not return to the house for another two years. Two years later, when Severus finds Lucius dead in the upstairs room, a crocheted wedding veil clutched in his dead fingers.


	41. Chapter 41

Hours later they sat once more in the kitchen, darkness falling into night outside the window, the sound of the sea discernable through the howl of the wind about the small home.

Draco watches Hermione read the book, a look of intense concentration in her eyes. She has not moved for quite some time and he finds himself studying her. Studying the way the firelight plays about her curls, across her eyelashes, slashes of cheekbones. The slight upturned nose, the stubborn chin.

Remembering seeing her months before, for the first time again in the library, seeing her and feeling that point under his chin flaring to life. Feeling the coldness, the pain, his compulsion, pulling, always pulling him to her. To their memories. To his memories. Ten years past.

But he has not felt that compulsion since the day before when finally, just finally, things were said and thoughts were exposed.

Their magic strong between them. Substantial. A lace of a winter's afternoon, brilliant as the heat of the sun warms the coldness of ice.

His fist clenches at the thought of her, him, them.

So many definitions.

Draco wonders if she'd caught the slip of his tongue in front of his father.

And if she had, why she had not reacted to it.

Moving in silence with her hand securely in his own, they had Disapparated back to Severus' home, where they left him with a promise to inform him of what they discovered, with his promise that he would look into whatever information he could find.

To Apparate back at the small home they'd left earlier that morning.

Barely any words spoken between them. Though she had, once gaining the house and walking into the kitchen, turned to him, her small hand gripping his chin hard, pulling his head down so she could capture his lips.

Standing in the kitchen for a moment while he leaned into her, allowing her to support him. If only for a moment.

But then she had pulled away, immediately preparing tea the Muggle way, until finally, tea things out on the table, his tea poured out for him, she had opened the book.

And had not looked up since.

He picks up his tea and sips it quietly, holding the delicate porcelain between his hands, warming his palms for a moment. He is supposed to be looking through the parchments once more, tracing the history of he spell, but he finds he can't concentrate.

All his attention is on the witch sitting across from him.

He had not thought about marriage. Not at least, in those terms. Long term is not something Draco does well. Ever since he was forced to admit that his life span was more than likely very short, being a Death Eater spy does that, he had never thought of the years ahead of him. After the war it was about getting his name back to its previous glory, regaining his wealth. About business and contacts, becoming once more the illustrious Malfoy prince.

A day-to-day, and at most, week-to-week endeavour, with only the long term business plans making him think of the future.

But personally. He had not thought beyond a couple days ahead of him.

A survival thing perhaps, because really, what did he have to look forward to during that time? He was not interested in women, couldn't be interested in women as all of them reminded him of Hermione. He had no thoughts of family. No thoughts of what he would do personally.

But now. Now, with this witch in front of him, with her curls playing about her face, that bottom lip pulled between her teeth, he finds the future is lying in front of him in directions he can't even imagine.

Roads. Possibilities.

It tugs at something in his gut, tugs hard.

Almost hurting.

He will not lose her. That thought moves about and about his head, circling even as he puts his tea down and picks up the parchment once more.

He will not lose her, though he knows somewhere in the back of his mind, that honest voice that he can not deny, it is not entirely up to him whether she stays or goes. She had left him once before - who is to say that she would not leave him again.

But if married?

Draco's thoughts are interrupted by Hermione moving finally, lowering her book to look at him.

He is surprised to see tears in her eyes.

A rush of protectiveness overwhelmed him for a moment as something indiscernible throbs in their bond.

Hermione looks down at the book, a soft look gracing her features before she once more glances back up at him.

"This is-" she starts, her voice catching, a hand coming up to rub away the tears on her cheeks. She laughs, a short laugh, "I'm being stupid. Look at me, crying over this."

Draco watches her in concern, not understanding, having scanned the book before handing it to her, but not actually reading it.

He wonders what is in the text.

But Hermione continues, smiling at him. "This is a beautiful spell."

Simply put. Draco shakes his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

Hermione picks up the book almost reverently, the look she gives it reminding him sharply of the same look his mother used to have when she read the book.

A gentle, almost knowing look.

The similarities between his mother and Hermione takes his breath away, a bludgeon in his chest and for a moment he has to focus on the intake and outtake of air.

"The spell is intertwined with the story, but it was a binding spell originally, a blood spell done between a Malfoy heir and his bride." A smile then, distant. Continuing. "Anyway, I can understand why it affected your mother; the story could be about your mother and father, the similarities are striking." Another pause, head slightly tilted as she catches Draco's eyes. "Did your parents do this binding spell?"

Annoyance, because of the pain moving through his chest now, because of the knowledge of memories, of histories, pressing down.

"Obviously not, seeing as he allowed her to be tortured and killed."

Harsh words.

Causing the colour in Hermione's face to bleed away slowly. She looks down at the book in her hand. "Of course. That was a stupid question."

Murmured.

Draco brings a hand up and rubs at the point between his eyes, closing them for a moment, allowing him to move away from the tightness about his middle, a tightness that has existed since he saw his father sitting in the chair in that run down library.

So very near death.

So not like the man he had known, that he had remembered.

Not even a shadow of that man.

A corpse.

Living and breathing.

Hermione continues though her tone is quieter, more cautious, not looking up at the man across from her that holds his head in his hands. Feeling him, the pain, so much of it, swirling about him, through their binding, through their magic.

The deep swirl of a London fog.

Thick. Impenetrable.

"The spell is in here, the connotations of it, and we were right. Originally it was a blood binding spell, to create protection and a deep and lasting bond between two people, a Malfoy and his bride, as I said. The binding creates a magic, a personal magic, a way of communicating more than anything else. A binding, much like a wizarding marriage ceremony but a little more extreme."

A quick of her lips, barely. "It appears as if the Malfoy family has always been a bit on the extremist side of things."

Draco drops his hands from his face and looks on Hermione, his mind trying to move away from the images of his mother on the ground, and back to the cosy kitchen the two of them inhabit.

Pulling his mind forward with a great deal of control. Focusing.

"So, somehow when we cast the revised version of this spell, it reverted back to the original?" he asks.

Hermione slowly shakes her head, absently turning the pages though she is not actually reading the words.

"No. I think we created a third revision because the field of magic was still created, we know that because we were able to help Harry, and that field of magic, the shadows, they are not part of the original spell. The original spell is something…" A pause, while she tries to find a word. Continuing, albeit slowly. "I think the original spell is pure, something between the two individual casters, but nothing more than that. It was this revision that added the Dark Magic, the malevolence of it."

Draco nods his head slowly, "Thus why it is a shadowed magic, something a little harsher, a little darker."

"Yes. But the original spell, being the original spell, is the base of the magic, the strongest parts of the magic. The revision changed things, but not the actual base part of the magic, thus, when we cast it, because we…" She pauses again, a small amount of colour moving over her cheeks. Continuing. "Because we cared about one another, and it was not just a powerful Malfoy trying to entrap a Muggle born, as the revision was used for, it tapped into the original base magic, the original spell, overriding the revision, though not completely."

A moment when the words hang in the air between them.

Dark grey eyes, softer but still laced with something black, sorrowful, meeting the gentler look of Hermione, her own eyes acknowledging the wizard, acknowledging what her magic is responding to in his.

He looks away, picking up his tea once more.

"So. What do we do?"

He asks, not sipping the tea, but holding it between his palms once more. Not looking at the witch sitting across from him but at the parchments and books spread out before them.

Hermione looking at the top of the white had, as it inclines slightly to take a sip of his tea.

She begins. "The spell, the revision, once the Malfoy caster creates the field and takes the magic from the Muggle, the field disperses."

Draco looking up sharply, eyes hard.

Hermione raises a hand. "No, I'm not going to go about killing myself, but what if the reaction would be the same if the bond was destroyed."

A tearing. Through his gut, at her words, at what they might mean.

Hermione sees it suddenly, a flash through their magic, across his face. She reaches out, dropping the book as she does so, grabbing his hand that does not hold the tea.

He jerks slightly from her grasp, a jerk reaction, something not thought of, instinctive.

Hermione lets the hand go.

"I'm not saying I want to, Draco," she says, quietly, softly, pleading almost.

Then firmer. "I don't want to. But if there is a way to disperse of this magic then we have a duty to."

"Why?" One word, harsh in the room.

Hermione looked away then, not meeting his gaze that suddenly pins her. "Because we do."

A sneer, she feels it even if she cant see it.

"For Potter and his brats?"

A flare of anger, at him and his words, dying out as soon as it flares up.

"Yes," she answers. Still not looking up at him. Continuing. "But also for others. You heard that it is not only Lily who is effected; it is everyone - every child born since that battle has this magic. If there is some way that we can cancel the magic, get rid of it, shouldn't we?"

Draco knows she is being rational, always the rational one, the logical one, but he is who he is and he wants this bond, he wants this binding with this witch.

He wants it more than anything he has ever wanted.

And is angry that she wants to demolish it, destroy it, just as they have finally found it. Discovered it.

But knowing, because he understands more than just what takes place in his realm of existence, that she is correct.

They have a duty to destroy it. Even though it tastes bitter on his tongue.

Bile.

When she reaches for his hand this time he does not take it away, watching under lowered eyelashes as she turns it over and slowly traces the lines there with a finger.

It causes a tightening in his gut and a stirring in his trousers.

Though he keeps his face blank and his magic in check.

"Draco," she starts, softly, a voice he is finding he can't do without. "If we can destroy this bond, to destroy the field of magic, we can still cast the binding spell, the original binding spell, again." A motion with her hand, towards the book in between them. "We have the original spell now, the original binding spell, that is…" She lets her sentence trail off once more.

Draco closes his palm about her fingers, not looking up still.

"I meant what I said." He says in response to her.

Glancing up and catching her gaze. Catching and holding.

He sees her hold a breath and then let it out slowly, pulling her lip in between her teeth.

The reaction makes him smile, hardness falling slightly at the sight.

"About what?" she asks, and her voice is just slightly unsteady, slightly uncertain.

Draco smirking, every so small, just a rise of lip, a flowing look of warmth in his eye.

"Marriage. Not right away, not even in the next couple of years, but eventually." A sudden feeling of embarrassment, uncertainty, a foreign and not all together welcome feeling for the Slytherin prince.

He is not used to being so direct.

But all weirdness, strangeness, falls away at the look he receives from the woman across the table, the sudden sparkle in her eye, the lifting of her lips, slightly plump where she has bitten it.

Teasing, a twinkle. "Are you proposing to me, Draco Malfoy?"

Draco sits back then, a smirk now full on his face. "Absolutely not. Malfoys propose in a much more lavish style."

Hermione tilts her head slightly. "Ah. So, I will know it when…"

Draco smiling, gently, grasping her hands and pulling them towards him. "You will most definitely know, my pet."

Hermione is a grinning thing, silly, a school girl, causing something in Draco's chest to flip and settle. He pulls on her hands, and without thought, she stands up and goes to where he sits, standing in front of him.

He wraps his arms around her, laying his head against her belly, closing his eyes.

She rakes her hands through his hair, always amazed at the nature of it, the silkiness of it.

"I love you." She says this quietly, meaning it with all of her, the magic swirling about them, her body, her mind. An ache almost in her gut, with no way of telling him or showing him how very much she does love him.

His arms about her tightening in response.

A moment between them. A completeness neither of them have known for some time.

If ever.

"If you want to do this, destroy this, I will," he says, mumbles, against her stomach.

Her hands drop from his hair to his shoulders, wrapping them awkwardly around him, pulling him even closer, if such a thing is possible.

Stilling for a moment longer before she untangles herself, pushing away slightly.

He lets go immediately, feeling the change in her magic even before she says a word.

Her intellect, her mind moving away from the moment between them and to the solution of the problem.

She sits down and picks up the book once more.

After a moment of watching her he brings up what he wishes he didn't know.

"Severus has told me he knows how to break the stone."

Her head snapping up at his words, gaze focusing on him.

"Why didn't you tell me of this earlier?"

Draco is easy in the chair he sits in, slouching, arrogant, always so very arrogant, but in the line of his face there is vulnerability.

Hermione sees it and her question does not have the bite it might otherwise have had.

"No matter," she waves her hand. "So he knows how?"

Draco nods once. "Yes. That's at least what he told me."

A narrowing of her eyes then, as connections are made.

"When were you talking to him about destroying the blood stone?"

Accusing words, a slight edge of panic.

Draco can't help but let the smirk grow alongside his jaw, lips, eyes moving into that soft quicksilver she knows, understands.

Instantly the panic moves away, just slightly.

Though Draco's smirk falls away, replaced by something else, serious, not entirely expressionless, but not telling either.

"The night I used Legilimency, after I saw what was there in your mind, I wanted to be rid of the blood stone, so I met Severus to find out if he had the information."

Hermione, remembering the shock of the spell, knowing what he saw, the guilt, Ron, horror. Thoughts that still exist but not as harsh. And then remembering the shock of no longer seeing the stone on his finger the night at the Manor, knowing it meant something, something she had, at the time, not wanted to think of.

She leans slightly forward, though she doesn't realise she does it.

"And now?"

A question Draco had not thought would be necessary, that would not come next, and for a moment he stares at her.

A worried frown, moving about her eyes, up her cheekbones, pulling her lip between her teeth.

Draco smiling slightly then, warming about him, "You need ask that?"

Hermione sitting back, trying to be nonchalant, easy, and not quite succeeding.

Causing the smile on Draco's face to grow even more.

The smile is sweet. Gentle. Something not seen on his face for a very long time and one that only the witch in front of him has the privilege of seeing now.

She knows this, even as it warms her skin, causing an almost peaceful feel, like sitting in the sun and stretching muscles in luxury.

Hermione smiles back. How can she not.

Looking down at the book again, her mind immediately moving from the wizard in front of her back to the problem at hand.

"He said he knew?" she clarifies, picking up the book once more.

Draco nods, then makes an agreeing noise as she does not look up from the book.

Hermione puts the book down and sighs, a quiet sigh. "I suppose we should go see him again then."

"No." One word, causing her to look up in surprise.

"What?"

Draco smirks. "No. We can send an owl."

A worried line moves between her eyes. "But the invite?"

"Is not tomorrow. We will get his response tomorrow and then have the rest of the day to come up with a solution." A pause, another look; this one predatory, almost hungry. "Tonight, I have plans for you, witch."

Hermione feels the warmth move up her neck to her cheeks, her hands curling into fists even as the first spikes of desire move up from the base of her spine, circling and stroking up the nerves there.

"Yes," she says, slightly breathless, not realising, not caring, "And what would those be?"

Draco leaning back, easy, confidence, "Dinner."

Hermione raising one eyebrow. "Oh?"

Another smirk. "In bed."

The other eyebrow rises. "Indeed."

Draco stands then, graceful, moving to where she sits and pulling her up by the arms, suddenly, almost forcefully, so she is wrapped up in his arms, pressed against his chest, before she can think on it.

She leans her face there, smelling him, that expensive scent that has not really changed through the years, not since the first time she noticed it.

So many years ago.

Feeling the familiarity, the completeness of their magic, a tide moving back and for the between them.

He rests his chin on top of her curls, arms almost tight around her form, until he can feel two small hands coming up to rest against his chest. Pushing gently.

He loosens his arms and looks down at her just as she looks up at him.

The look on her face tears at his gut. A pain in the pleasure of it.

Her eyes so very warm. So very truthful.

Kissing her suddenly, almost harshly, a reaffirmation.

Pulling away only when both of them must breath, their faces flushed, their eyes bright in the little light of the kitchen.

Hermione brings one hand up and traces his jaw with a finger. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Draco tilting his head, kissing the tip of her finger before answering, briefly wondering if he should lie, knowing, almost as soon as he thinks the thought, that she will know if he does so.

"I will be."

He answers, as a way of not lying, but not answering.

A brief smile moves across Hermione's lips as she looks up at him. She knows exactly what he just did.

And why.

So instead of pursuing the question, instead of peppering him with questions as she might have once, she leans up onto her toes kissing him gently, a mere pressure of lips on his own before stepping away.

Turning and moving away, towards the kitchen door, opening it with one hand.

"Where are you going?" A voice calling after her as she goes to step into the hallway.

Hermione glancing over her shoulder at him. Curls moving about her head, a smile playing about her lips, giving the wizard in the kitchen a look, one that speaks more than words ever could. Of heat, of memory, of forgiveness. Of love, of future and past, of so many different things.

So very many things.

Draco follows hers without another word.


	42. Chapter 42

They stand in front of the Ministry of Magic.

A witch and a wizard.

The witch has her usually curly hair pulled harshly back from her face in a knot at the back of her head. Prim and proper robes of black swirl about her person, a black cloak placed over her arm, a folder clutched in one hand.

She is not beautiful, but she is attractive, a feeling of calmness about her, of years lived, survived, and the peace and acceptance that comes with going through much and surviving.

More than surviving. Thriving. Now, finally, thriving.

A look of determination set on her features. A look indicating she is set on something, has decided something, and nothing whatsoever will make her change her mind.

A slight lift of her chin, brown eyes warm, almost gentle, even though the determination is there. Thrumming about her.

The wizard stands next to her, too close to be casual but not close enough to be inappropriate.

He is dressed immaculately. His white hair is smoothed away from his aristocratic features, black robes tailored to perfection, every ounce of him screaming wealth, breeding, old money and old titles.

The expression on his face is arrogant, lazy, a slight tilt to a lip, and those who look into his eyes see they are the colour of storm clouds.

Cold. Grey. Not exactly expressionless, but swirling with many different emotions, none of them remaining long enough to categorize and analyse.

His life, his lessons, his being, are concealed things, not apparent to those about him, to those who know who he is, what he is. An achingly private man, very few would look on him and see the truth of the man, the truth of the wizard.

But the witch at his side knows. She knows and when she turns to him, looking up at him, her smile shows the world what they are to each other.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

So many definitions, meanings, things, histories, memories. Thoughts.

Though no one sees the smile, the look; no one but one tall dark wizard slowly making his way towards them.

Hermione looks away from Draco and the smile slips to a smirk, watching as Severus walks towards them, his graceful movements surprisingly coexistent with the harsh look on his face and the black robes billowing about him.

He stops in front of the witch and wizard.

"You have the information?" Draco asks.

Severus nods once. "Of course." A pause as he looks between the two former students. "You do realise they are going to have very little patience with what you have to say, and in fact, their reactions might not be entirely gracious?"

Hermione's smirk grows slightly, a mischievous tilting about the side of her lips. "We realise that, Severus, but there is very little they can do about it."

Severus shakes his head slowly, dark hair catching in the slight wind and moving across his older features. "It is a very good thing that you happen to be best friends with Harry Potter; otherwise this would be a disaster."

Hermione tilts her head studying Severus. "Perhaps," she answers. "However, they came to me originally wanting a lesson plan, believing there was no way to rid the world of this magic. So they were led to believe that there was." She shrugs lightly. "It's not my fault they were wrong to believe."

Draco smirks next to her. "I sincerely hope you are not going to be that brutally honest with the lot of them."

Hermione's flashes him a grin. "Of course, my love, I am a Gryffindor after all."

The two wizards share a look over the top of the witch's head.

Hermione sees it but chooses to ignore it, instead turning on a heal and climbing the steps to the front of the Ministry.

"Well, are you two louts coming?" she calls over her shoulder.

Another look between the men though they say nothing, obediently following the witch into the building.

Whispers trail the three through the lobby and up to where the board rooms are. They ignore the whispers quite easily; the witch with her chin in the air, Draco with a face of arrogant boredom, and Severus with the precise look of nothing at all.

Though inwardly Hermione can't help but grimace and feel a flash of panic.

They are not going to an execution nor a sentencing, just a meeting, though it is something that Draco has had to remind Hermione on several occasions for the last day and a half.

Just an invite. A meeting.

The litany moving through Hermione's head as she reaches the board room and pushes the door open, precisely on time.

A meeting.

She reminds herself, though the nerves jumping about her stomach do not calm and suddenly she feels the distinct desire to be ill. Especially when she walks in and all eyes turn immediately to the door.

Some friendly. Some not so much.

A hand at the small of her back, steadying, reassuring; magic swirling about her, a warming about the base of her spine even as she feels her magic responding to the wizard behind her.

A confirmation. A resolution.

Draco lets his hand drop from the small of her back but it's all she needed and Hermione walks to the head of the table with the precise and measured step of someone with renewed confidence.

Draco is proud of her. His witch. He'd felt her waver when faced with the sea of faces and had responded without thought, almost immediately, something confident and almost arrogant in reaction to her reaction.

To have the ability to calm her with just a touch.

Powerful, but a different kind of power from what he's known before.

He follows her to the head of the table, scanning the room, lazy, cool eyes cataloguing everyone present, analyzing, categorizing. An immediate and almost instinctive action, born from years as the head of a very powerful enterprise, as well as something inborn, bred, through the years of being a Malfoy.

Finding allies, finding enemies, weakness, strength.

He sees the faces of each and remembers them.

Severus follows, a dark presence, always a shadow behind them, silent in his movements, also looking around the room to analyse and assess. He is there as a favour, asked by his Godson and his witch, and he sees several people blink in surprise at his arrival.

He ignores them with the ease of years doing so and seats himself next to Draco.

Harry Potter clears his throat at the other end of the table and stands up slightly.

All eyes revert to him.

"Excellent," he starts, every bit the politician, "I believe that is all of us then." A look around the room at all present, lingering for just a moment on Hermione before looking on the man sitting next to her.

Harry's gaze lingers on Draco, lingers so long that several people twitch in their seat.

Grey eyes, green eyes, brilliant but different, different in so very many ways.

Harry is the one who looks away, nodding slightly at Severus before glancing down at the files sitting in front of him.

He sits and pulls the files towards him.

"This meeting has been called to address the current developments regarding this third magical field we've discussed before."

Looking up briefly to ensure everyone is paying attention before continuing. "Several things have come to my attention, and the attention of the Ministry, since the original project was announced, and we are here today to go over these developments and decide what sort of actions must be taken."

Harry opens the first file, glancing up at Hermione briefly with an almost apologetic look, so brief that only Hermione catches it, before looking down on the paper before him.

"Of course, all of you know by now what happened with my daughter several days ago. This magic, this dimensional field, hindered the ability of medical professionals to treat a rather basic fever. Hermione was able to establish a connection with this magic, thereby - if I understand correctly - pulling the magic away from Lily, thus allowing the normal procedure of reducing the fever after taking away this third magic."

A snort, just barely, at the simplification of what Hermione did. A slight movement in the air from Draco, though when eyes turn towards him he looks blandly back at them.

Not saying a word.

Harry also looks up to glance at him but continues without saying anything about the interruption.

"Since that time, the Ministry has received several letters, more than fifty actually, outlining similar experiences, though none of them to the extent warranting hospitalisation. However, this has caused an outpouring of concern from the community, and of course those in the Ministry, specifically those in this room, have also raised concerns as to the nature of this field of magic."

Closing the folder slightly and placing his hands easily upon the surface, Harry looks on Hermione once more. "This is why you have been called here: to inform of us of the nature of this magic, and to tell us of your progress in researching the magic."

A pause.

Then another voice.

"And how to destroy it."

This time from Moody who is glaring at everyone in general, though there is something soft about his glare when it lands on Hermione, only to harden when the glares moves to Draco at her side.

Hermione tenses just slightly at Moody's words and at the glare he gives the man at her side, but a hand, warm and sure descends on her leg under the table and she once more relaxes, giving Moody a smile that takes him slightly aback at its almost ferocious nature.

She lets the smile linger for a moment before turning her look on her childhood friend.

"It can't be destroyed." She says the words quietly but clearly, all of the room hearing them.

A look of surprise on several faces, anger on several more.

"Why?"

Hermione notices that the ease in which the Minister of Magic sat in his chair before is now tensed, his green eyes hardening slightly.

She is not all together surprised at the reaction.

Though on some level it saddens her.

She looks away from Harry, looking to Minerva sitting next to him, to Remus, Tonks, Moody, Hannah, and several other faces she knows. Knows, understands, even as they look on her almost accusingly.

Hermione begins again.

"Perhaps I should restate that," she says just as quietly and clearly. "There is only one way to destroy the field, and I, for one, am not particularly fond of that solution."

Moody again grasping, magical eye moving about wildly. "You mean you are so ensnared by that traitor next to you that you have lost all common sense and refuse to break off whatever twisted relationship you have with him?"

Hermione pales at the words, pales, and feels the hand on her leg tensing, long fingers digging in her thigh as a way to calm the anger she knows is now radiating through the wizard next to her.

"No," she says curtly. "That one solution requires me to die, and I very much would like to continue living."

Moody's face turns slightly sheepish for just a moment.

"And that is the only solution?" Harry asks, breaking into the tension, though it is still there in the room, all eyes moving between Draco and Hermione.

"It is." Severus answers.

Harry looks away from Hermione to the dark man. "Explain?"

A smirk on Severus' face, clearly annoyed.

"Of course." Silky tones, annoyance clear in those as well. "Though perhaps Hermione would like to first give a description of the actual magic before we talk about the actions required in destroying it. After all, we cannot understand the reaction before first realising the action."

The speech is given in a tone of the ex-professor and it is not only his former students that feel abashed, disciplined, but all in the room.

Harry inclines his head. "Please, Hermione."

Barely noticeable but to three in the room, Hermione's chin rises several notches into the air, preparing herself even as she feels the hand move from her thigh.

Giving her space to think, to explain.

Something warm moves through her at the understanding behind Draco's action, even as she pulls out her own file of notes. Parchments rolled together and a quill that she picks up and puts between her fingers.

Swirling it one way and then another. The movement soothing to her, even as she looks about the room at the different levels of reaction.

She begins.

"There are three versions of this spell." She starts, only to be interrupted by Moody who barks out at her words.

She looks over at Moody, meeting his eyes, her own narrowing slightly. "Would you like me to continue, Mr. Moody?"

"Hermione," this time from Harry, "Please continue. Mr. Moody, you have been warned."

A growl from the older man, something about cheek of the younger generation.

All ignore him.

Hermione begins again.

"As I was saying, there are three versions of this spell. For clarity I will begin with the original version, which some of you have already figured out, is blood magic, specifically a blood binding. The original spell was written almost a thousand years ago as best we can decipher, by a male Malfoy. The purpose of the spell is fairly straight forward - it is simply a spell used as a bonding between a Malfoy and his bride, a version of a private Wizarding marriage, by all appearances."

Hermione pauses when she catches Minerva's eye and the older woman smiles, speaking. "That explains the bloodstones."

Hermione raises an eyebrow at that.

Minerva's face is soft, a chuckle moving across the room to the younger witch. "Yes, I knew what the stone was on young Malfoy's hand, just as well as the stone that you keep hidden in your rooms."

A blush moves across Hermione's features.

"Yes, you are correct, Minerva. Originally, the spell produces a bloodstone by the drop of blood from both the male and female, also creating the protective bond between the two of them."

"But," Tonks breaks in suddenly, her face scrunched up in thought, "I thought blood magic could only work between blood relations?"

Hermione nods. "Indeed; however, part of the spell includes a moment when the two wands create drops of blood on the other person, almost like a slicing hex but more complex. This action is even more effective then just sharing blood, as if you were to cut a hand and share blood in that kind of ritual, or even between family."

Hermione catches Remus looking at her, head tilted slightly, a thoughtful look on his face.

She does not wait for his question, continuing. "I know there are going to be a lot of questions, but please let me finish explaining the three versions and then we, the three of us, will try to answer your questions."

Several heads nod, including Remus who is still looking on her strangely, his gaze sliding to the wizard next to her.

She feels Draco tense but continues, her own hand this time coming to the side to brush his arm, just slightly, just barely.

A physical touch to intensify the calmness moving back and forth in their bond. The reaffirmation of support.

Hermione swallows slightly, looking down at her notes before continuing.

The quill still moving between her fingers.

"That was the first version of the spell. The second version was developed fifty years ago, as best we can tell. Marcus Malfoy, Draco's great-grandfather, came across the original spell, a spell that had been, since then, hidden in a very old book in the Malfoy Manor."

The quill stopping for a moment, the white blur between her fingers stilling as she continues. "This was at the height of the Wizard Hitler's advance on the Muggle world and he, being one of Hitler's men, saw the spell as an opportunity. He warped the original magic to create the second version of the spell. This version was the one that Draco and I believed we were casting."

The quill, moving once more, Hermione in her lecture mode. "This spell, essentially, allows a Malfoy pure-blood to pull the magic from a Muggle-born witch or wizard, resulting in the depletion of the Muggle-born's magic. The process of draining the magic causes a field of magic, a sort of stasis on the magic. This field is what Harry used in order to defeat Voldemort."

A murmur of voice at the Dark Lord's name.

Hermione ignores them and continues. "Once the Malfoy has completely drained the magic of the Muggle-born, leading to the Muggle-born's death, the field is supposed to dissipate. The Malfoy casting the spell has completely absorbed the magic making them more powerful, and the field is no longer essential and fades away."

Kingsley Shacklebolt breaks in, "But the field did not dissipate."

Hermione shakes her head. "No. That brings us to the third version."

This time she puts the quill down, looking around the room, lingering on Harry before explaining.

"The third version of the spell is, from all apparent indications, a combination of the two first spells. Both the blood binding spell, leading to the creation of the bloodstones, but also, or rather in addition to, the more malevolent version of the spell, leading to the creation of the magical field, a field that did not go away."

She catches Remus' eye then and locks on to them, instinctively understanding that what she says next is part of the reason behind the thoughtful look he is giving her and Draco.

"The field did not go away because the exchange of magic never actually took place. My magic, which was supposed to flow to Draco, did not. Instead, it combined with his creating a third magic, the field, or the shadow magic as some of you have called it."

Hermione pauses then, looking about the table. Waiting, seeing the different faces going through their thoughts, opinions, drawing conclusions.

"So you are saying that this magic that Lily and the other children experience, is a combination of your and Draco's magic?" Harry asks, his face thoughtful, green eyes looking at Hermione and then to Draco.

Hermione nods.

"Essentially."

"Break the bond," another voice, this from an Auror Hermione can't recall the name of.

She feels more than sees Draco shake his head next to her, opening his mouth to offer a smart comment, but Minerva answers first.

"They can't," she says quietly.

All eyes turn to the current Headmistress of Hogwarts, but she doesn't look at anyone, her gaze directly on Hermione and then Draco, a soft smile ghosting about her lips. "Can you?"

Hermione shakes her head. "No."

"Why?" This time from Tonks.

Again Minerva. "Because the only way you can break a blood binding is if one of the participants dies."

Another thoughtful silence about the room, and then Harry, slowly, as if not to make a mistake, speaks. "Are you saying, Hermione, that you and Draco are bound through blood and there is no way to counteract it?"

A flash of irritation at her friend, and she can feel Draco's reaction is similar through their bond.

"No, there is not," Hermione says evenly, answering before Draco can say something snide and cutting.

Remus speaks then. Hermione has watched him out of the corner of her eye and she knows he will be the one to ask the question. "But a binding, a blood binding… Unless I am very much mistaken, that would mean that you and Mr. Malfoy were-" a pause then, almost embarrassed, continuing, "-in love at the time it was cast."

Hermione feels the colour moving across her cheeks and is slightly surprised that it is not shame she feels, but embarrassment to have such a personal matter discussed in front of a group of people.

She distinctly feels Draco warm at her side, realising the difference in her reaction. A reaction, substantially different in what it would have been but a month before.

Their magic throbbing between them.

Severus saves her from answering. "You know very well, Lupin, for a blood binding to work three elements must be present: purpose, sacrifice, and love." A slight sneer on the older wizard's lips as he looks at the other man. "It is not different in this situation."

Hermione carefully does not look at the rest of the room, looking straight at Harry who is watching her with something akin to gentleness in his eyes, acceptance.

"Do the circumstances really matter?" A drawl, that arrogant drawl, cold silk, from next to her.

The effect on the room is instantaneous; all eyes moving to the wizard at her side, all attention suddenly, intently, focused on him and only him.

If the situation were any different, Hermione would laugh at the effect his voice and person has on the room. All present react to Draco's charisma though a few, more than a few, would be horrified to realise they do so.

Draco leans slightly forward, still lazy, easy, looking about the room. "I was under the impression that the issue in question is not the how of the matter, but rather, what you are going to do about the result."

Moody instantly reacts, "You boy, you have something do with this…"

Draco shrugs even as Harry admonishes the elder wizard with a word, silencing him.

Hermione is amused.

Harry continues. "Mr. Malfoy is quite correct; this is about what to do in response."

A slight sigh of wariness moves across Harry's face, looking about the room before moving his gaze once more on Hermione. "You are absolutely sure there is no solution to this."

A gentle smile, a lifting about her lips, at her friend. "I'm sure, Harry."

"This is ridiculous," another voice, this time from a younger witch, hair pulled back from her face.

Hermione tries to call on a name and can't come up with one.

Harry looks over at the witch and the woman blushes slightly, speaking again. "If you beg my pardon, Minister, but we are risking children's lives by taking the word of this witch and a Malfoy and it seems to me that you have forgotten this."

When Hermione feels Draco's tension catapult several degrees in reaction to the woman's words, she does not hide nor make pretence of putting her hand on his arm.

Calming.

It does not go unnoticed by several in the room.

Hermione keeps her hand firmly placed on the black clad arm, the contact as much for her as for him.

Harry looks on the woman. "I realise that, Mrs. Avery, and am very aware of that in fact, from personal experience. However, I have no reason to disbelieve the evidence put forth by Miss Granger nor Mr. Malfoy."

Mrs. Avery shakes her head. "Forgive me if I do not trust her as much as you do."

"Mrs. Avery," the dark voice of Severus cut in. "Are you suggesting that Miss Granger is purposefully misleading this board and the Minister of Magic?"

Hermione does not have to look over at her former professor to know he is giving the woman a look of utter disdain; it is very evident in her voice.

The woman visibly pales.

Severus continues. "Because, please, if you believe that to be the case I am sure we would like to hear what you have to say as to the reasoning behind why Miss Granger would want to mislead Harry Potter and the Wizarding community?" A pause, his voice dropping slightly. "Pray, Mrs. Avery, inform us of your suspicions."

The woman opens her mouth, closes it, opens her mouth again, "I am not…"

Severus cuts her off instantly, his voice like a whip across the room. "Quite, then I would suggest silence."

The woman blushes furiously and Hermione almost feels sorry for her.

Almost.

Hermione looks away from the unfortunate Mrs. Avery to look back at Harry.

Addressing him rather than anyone else. "I realised there would be questions, so I have compiled, with the assistance of Draco and Severus, a complete report. The first report is an outline of the definitions of the three different versions of the magic, explaining clearly the how of each one. The second report is a complete list of references to all of our research leading us to the conclusion that this binding cannot be broken by any means but death. The third report is, of course, the conclusions of our findings as stated today."

Another pause.

The Headmistress cutting in. "She is quite right actually; it is universally known that a blood binding can not be broken but by death. As to the validity of their binding, they have the stones to attest to that."

Another pause as all think on Minerva's words.

Draco breaks in with his drawl once more. "I was of the understanding, prior to the Holiday, that this magic was an accepted fact and that originally, I, as well as Miss Granger, were called in to create a curriculum for the magic, not to destroy it."

A mutter of responses, though Harry is the first to respond. "You are correct, but that is before we discovered the magic could harm people, harm children."

A snort from Hermione, and all eyes turn to her in surprise. But she can't help it, not in the least, and she is not sorry for it.

All of them dunderheads, she thinks, even as she realises she sounds like Severus.

"Are you going to explain your amusement?" This question coming from an irritated Hannah.

Hermione nods. "Of course. I feel that Harry is overreacting."

"Overreacting?" Harry says, low, angry suddenly. "It seems to me it was not your daughter in the hospital."

This time it is Draco's hand that descends on Hermione's arm as she narrows her eyes, anger pulling in around her.

"My Goddaughter, Harry? The one that I helped, or did you forget?"

A murmur of voices, the air crackling between the two friends, before Harry finally looks away, his magic receding slightly.

"Of course," he says, and suddenly Hermione is distinctly reminded of the boy she once knew and she feels her own anger fall away followed by softness.

"Perhaps overreacting is the wrong word to use," Hermione says quietly, noticing absently that Draco has withdrawn his hand. "After experimenting with the magic, after working with it both with Draco and alone, I believe that this magic is like all magic - it just has to be controlled. All of us remember when we first learned we had magic, some of us earlier than others, and it was without thought that we were taught to use it. This third magic, this field, it is less direct but can be controlled if taught how to do so."

Harry, along with several other people in the room, look on her suspiciously.

"Are you sure?" Harry asks.

Hermione shakes her head, "Not entirely, not until I am able to work with a child with access to the magic."

A snort, this time from Moody, "And so we just have to trust good luck that none of them end up in the hospital until you can get to them?"

Tiredness then, moving through Hermione's bones, at the argument, at having to try to defend something she is not even completely sure about.

Draco sees the tiredness just then, having watched her out of the corner of his eye through most of the proceeding. Sees it and feels hatred at the stupid old wizard, a wave of protectiveness making it very hard not to hex the old coot.

But instead he answers for Hermione. "It's not so much a matter of getting to the children, as it is providing the information to parents, just the same way we offer information to witches finding out they are pregnant; just part of their reading for what to expect of a new witch or wizard."

He feels the relief of his words wafting off Hermione in waves and he has to contain himself from turning to her and enveloping her in his arms, shielding her from the people in the room.

Stupid, stupid, people.

Hermione takes up the conversation. "Besides, I believe that Lily feels the magic a little more, or perhaps even a lot more, than most children. For instance, I do not have the same reaction to Ronald; although it is there, it is not nearly as strong."

"Why?"

This question from Tonks.

Hermione raises an eyebrow.

Tonks clarifies. "Why is she stronger?"

Hermione struggles for a moment, feeling a wave of guilt, thoughts tumbling about her mind, struggling against the darkness that rolls within her magic.

This time Draco reaches out to take her hand and squeezes it, bringing her back.

She answers Tonks, not looking at Harry.

"She was the firstborn of Harry, who was directly enmeshed in the field of magic, she was-" here Hermione pauses, searching for words, before continuing. "Blood magic, as you heard, is made up of three separate things: love and purpose but also sacrifice. I believe, obviously, the sacrifice part of it was established in my willingness to die for the cause and Draco's willingness to die for me; however, I believe the true sacrifice came in the death of Ron Weasley."

She continues hurriedly over the murmurs of the room. "I believe that Lily is the direct benefactor of that sacrifice."

Hermione barely hears the murmur of voices, feeling the guilt rolling about her, but then a hand pulls her back from the darkness of the magic swirling, the hand pulling as the magic pulls.

She turns and looks into the cool eyes of Draco and when she sees them soften, scanning her face, scanning her eyes, softening because he is looking at her, balance re-establishes herself.

Hermione smiles slightly and turns away to confront the room once more.

Harry is speaking again, pain clear in his face, in his eyes, though his voice is steady.

"Then we have established the cause and the effect, and it appears as if the only solution is a defensive one."

With a glance at the magical numbers on the wall indicating the time, the Minister of Magic pulls his folders towards him standing up. "I have a meeting I must attend with the American president so I must leave, but I will have my secretary contact all of you in order to set up a meeting to discuss strategies. Please be thinking of them."

A pause, as Harry looks on Hermione, looks on her hard. Then.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, Hermione?"

A tensing of the wizard next to her. She nods briefly and then turns to Draco, capturing his hand once more, a thumb moving across his palm. Dark grey eyes, growing steel like, soften once more.

He nods, though no words are spoken.

Hermione gathers her folders and parchments, throwing her cloak about her shoulder and follows Harry to the hallway, the door closing behind them.

She follows the Minister of Magic to a small hallway empty of people.

He turns on her, green eyes piercing her, searching her face. "So, you have told him?"

Hermione does not pretend she doesn't understand. She just nods.

"And what about him?"

Hermione smiles then, a gentle smile, showing everything to the friend in front of her. Not the Minister of Magic, not the man who once killed Voldemort, but her life-long friend, the memory of what is between them.

"What do you think of me being Mistress of Malfoy Manor?" she asks instead of answering him.

Green eyes suddenly sparkling, a dark eyebrow moving up to always untidy dark hair. "He has asked you already."

Hermione shrugs, a blush suddenly moving over her features. "Well, not in so many words, but let's say it was implied."

A grin, a flash, then sober. "George will not take this well."

Hermione looking down, nodding slowly. "I know, I just…" She looks back up, meeting green eyes with her brown. "George is a wonderful man, you know that, Harry, but he is not Draco."

A snort in disbelief and in humour.

"Well, I'll make sure and not tell him you said that." A smile then, "Don't worry, Mione; he's a good looking bloke, and setting him up with eligible witches will give Ginny something to do."

Another smile, between them.

But suddenly, just then, soberness.

A pause, where Harry braces her with two hands on her arms, holding her in place so he can look down on her.

"And Ron?" he asks gently.

The guilt, still there, a feeling of dull pain along her nerves, up her spine, a dryness in her eyes as she looks up at Harry.

"I will always love Ron." She answers him quietly.

"But you love Malfoy," Harry finishes, pulling her into a hug then, a hug that almost hurts.

Murmuring into her hair. "I am glad, Hermione. I'll always think him a git, think you can probably do better, but I am glad."

Hermione can't help it then, something breaks in her chest and she pushes away from Harry, bringing a hand up to wipe the sudden moisture away from her cheeks.

"You're a git," she says, trying to stop the crying that has suddenly started.

Harry wipes the tears away with his own hand. "I am, but I'm your git, and," he says, mischief moving over his features, "I fully intend to take advantage of you being the wife of one of the most wealthy and influential men in the Wizarding world."

Hermione rolls her eyes,."Honestly," she says, though she smiles too, her eyes drying even as Harry gives a quick hug again, scanning her face.

"You're good though?" he asks, his eyes scanning her face, probing her.

Hermione nods. "I'm good."

"Then that's all that matters."

Another hug, quick, and then Harry puts the Minister of Magic persona back on. "I expect you to think on solutions, ways of getting information out about this magic, as well as more information on how to control it."

Hermione can't help but raise an eyebrow at the sudden change in Harry, amusement clear on her face. "Of course, Minister."

Harry smirks, slightly, and then turns and disappears down the hallway.

She senses a sudden presence behind her.

Without thought, Hermione leans back resting herself against the strong front of Draco Malfoy.

"You alright, love?" A dark voice next to her ear.

Hermione turns, stepping back and looking into grey eyes, those beautiful eyes that now closely resemble the colour of the sea, rolling grey, swirling with emotion.

She reaches up and places a hand against his cheek, briefly, not enough to call attention to the act, but still enough for the contact to be felt.

"I need to do something," she says, explains.

Draco looks down on her, eyes narrowing slightly, and Hermione can't help but smile at his look.

"Don't worry, it's nothing awful and horrible, just," pausing, tilting her head and bringing her lip between her teeth, "I need to say goodbye."

Draco searches her face, searching the soft brown eyes, noticing the curls escaping from her severe knot, framing her face, the freckles along her nose, and that lip, pulled between white teeth.

He knows that nervous gesture will be the death of him one day.

Because Draco is still Draco, he glances around to make sure that they are relatively alone before leaning down and gently kissing the witch in front of him.

He pulls back slightly, meeting her eyes, piercing her with a gaze, "You are not going away?" he asks, wincing inwardly at the slight unease in his voice, the slight crack.

Hermione reaches up and kisses him this time, a mere peck, a moment brief enough. "I told you, I will never leave you," she whispers against his lips, before stepping back.

Draco gives her a smirk then, tilting his head, "Then I expect you home in one hour. I have an afternoon planned for you."

Hermione smirking back, "Hmm, and what do those plans consist of?"

Those grey eyes turn then to quicksilver, lust heating them up even as his eyes peruse her body up and down leisurely, "Oh, I think you won't mind them, might even find them pleasurable."

Hermione feels slightly out of breath from just his look, feeling her own flush of desire washing through her body. "I think you might be right," she says lightly, though her response to his words, to him, is clear in her heightened colour and the sudden darkening of her eyes.

Another smirk. "I am always right, remember?"

Hermione smiling then, a brilliant smile, at this wizard, this man. "I'll remember that."

Draco leans in, a quick contact of lips, before swirling in his dark cloak and walking away.

Hermione watches him, a smile flittering about her lips until she realises that several witches are looking at her with clear interest and catty envy.

She flashes a cocky smile at him before walking away.

The sun is shining as she exits the Ministry building and by the time she gets to the familiar black gates the heat is hot on her head and she has pulled off her cloak, draping it over her arm.

She walks under the tall gates.

She weaves in between tombstones, avoiding the ghosts flying about, dunking under the Ever Weeping Willows, finding the black path of crushed onyx that leads to the far corner of the cemetery.

She stops in front of a small traditional tombstone, a Muggle tombstone.

She kneels in front of it.

Sadness and guilt move through her, swirl about her, as a finger comes up to trace the familiar outlines of the lettering, but it's different this time, substantial but not overwhelming. An echo rather than a full assault.

Tears once more fall from dark eyes, but instead of a grimace of pain a smile plays about her lips.

"You would hate this, Ron," she murmurs to the stone. "You would probably yell and scream, argue with me and call me mental."

A light laugh, the finger tracing the R, then the O. "Falling for a Malfoy, I can hear it now, and Draco the ferret no less."

Letting her finger fall from the stone, hands falling to her knees. "I do love him though, Ron, and he loves me, and I would hope, if you were still here, that you would have understood that."

Another pause, the sun catching on the moisture of her face as the witch tilts her head. "And I do wish you were here, I do, because there is so much I want to share with you, about Harry and Ginny and their kids, about Minerva, and about me, me and him. You would have never gotten along, but I know you would have learned to respect one another."

Another smile, "I suppose that's the best I would have been able to hope for."

Hermione leans forward slightly, resting her head against the coldness of the stone. Even in the heat of the day, the stone is frigid and she lets it melt into her skin, for a moment, just a moment.

Letting the emotions swirl about her, in her, letting her magic, all three magics, throb about her.

Remembering, feeling.

For a moment.

And then.

She straightens, placing a palm on the carved name 'Ronald Weasley', feeling the etching under her skin.

"I have to let go now, Ron," she whispers, her face sad, wistful almost. "I hope you understand wherever you are, that it's time for me to move on. I loved you so much and in a way, I will always love you, you will always be the first for me, a memory that I will treasure among the best."

Another pause, and Hermione lets her hand drop from the stone, rising to her feet and looking down at the grave.

"But I have to say goodbye now, Ron."

A smile, tinged with many years, memories, lives, but more.

Tinged with hope.

A pause where she glances once more, lingering.

Then Hermione Granger turns away from the tombstone of her old friend and boyfriend, steadily making her way out of the cemetery, her pace quick, precise, face clear and lovely in the sun.

Once past the shadow of the black gates she Disapparates almost immediately.

Apparating to the feel of the wind off the sea, to the sound of waves crashing about cliffs.

To the door of a small home, sturdy against the onslaught of the grey sky overhead, Hermione opens the door.

The white haired wizard looks up from the kitchen table at her entrance, porcelain tea cup cradled in long aristocratic fingers. A smile blooms about Draco's face when he sees her, gentle, loving, brilliant in its honesty.

She smiles back.

"I'm home," she says, closing the door behind her.


	43. Chapter 43

_B/N: When I got the prelim to beta this story, I was hesitant to accept. I've never been a fan of Draco and Hermione together – they just didn't make sense to me. But something about the story intrigued me and I decided to trust instinct and accepted it. I'm so glad that I did. Not only did I discover the delight that is Draco and Hermione together (even if it did take me 36 chapters to figure it out LOL), but I also made a wonderful friend in the process of it all. _

_I feel the need to mention that chapter 42 is actually the end of the story. However, I was a bit sad at the thought of the story being over without knowing what happens to them beyond the confines of the story. Crazylizzie, my oh-so-awesome friend and provider of coffee and chocolate, ever so graciously agreed to go outside her norm and write an epilogue in order to satisfy my burning curiosity. And so, for your reading pleasure and mine, we bring you a brief glance of what happened after the story ends. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do._

The young woman watches the pair dance about the room as if they are the only ones in existence. Her eyes, the colour of storm clouds rolling over the sea, are soft, unguarded, unlike her, and for a moment the man across the room sees her for something other than the Slytherin he has always associated her as.

Rising from where he sits, he slowly unfolds himself from his chair, long-legged and well muscled with a shocking crop of black hair that never lies down. He excuses himself from his cousin, brother, and a woman he just barely knows but who is trying to get his attention. Leaves them without thought, moving through the crowds of people to where she stands.

It has been several years since he's spoken to her. Several years since they've argued, threatened to hex, and left with a sneer outlining their names. They'd been opposites in everything: in houses, in thoughts and opinions, and though he is one year older than her, and one year above her in school, they had competed in everything. Grades, Quidditch, always trying to outdo one another in every little thing they competed in. Hated one another really, despite the relation between their families, despite the fact that both of them, repeatedly, got long lengthy lectures about getting along.

They just never could.

But tonight, tonight is different and he knows this as soon as he sees the woman, for now she is suddenly a woman, gazing softly at her parents.

He looks at her, moving through the crowds, noticing that her usually curly blond hair is pulled back off her face allowing the slight neck, almost glowing in its paleness, to stand distinct against the emerald coloured robes she wears. She has only a thin diamond necklace as an ornament, a gift from her father if he remembers correctly, a gift of last Christmas, witnessing the exchange when he'd stopped by to give his Godmother her gift.

He supposes, moving about a dancing couple, that it was then he had noticed her first, the witch, bane of his existence, seeing her in the glow of the morning sunshine in the large manor that was her home. Seen her for the first time, outside of her school robes, outside of the sneer she usually, so very effectively, threw his way.

But tonight there is another epiphany and though he isn't sure what he is doing, he doesn't think on it, not really, and soon he is by her side.

A waft of scent, of something cold, like a winter's morning, freshly fallen snow, the smell of the sea. He stands a head taller than her and for a moment, just a moment, he wants to lean towards her, smell her.

But he doesn't, instead catching her attention by moving ever so slightly by her side, enough to make it so she becomes aware of his presence. When she turns, looking up at him, before the polite look on her face can become a sneer, a sharp retort, he smiles.

It takes her breath away. Staring up at the man, blinking slowly, coming to terms with the smile. The smile coming from a man who she spent her Hogwarts life arguing with, competing with, despising, to see him looking down at her, green eyes twinkling, and a smile, both goofy and gentle, gracing his face, it takes her breath. And she has the almost unbearable desire to flatten the fly away strands of his dark hair with her fingers.

Though she keeps her hands in front of her.

"They are a handsome couple," Fred Potter says quietly, looking over to the pair the ball is for.

Catherine Malfoy looks over to where her parents dance, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room. Her mother's own curls, brown with slashes of grey, are pulled up into a similar knot at the back of her head, and the lavender robes she wears highlight her warm skin tones and the brilliant sparkle of her brown eyes. Eyes that look adoringly at her husband, who, in turn, looks down at her. His robes, black of course, are immaculate, as is his hair and his person. His face is almost expressionless, though even from where she stands and because she knows her father, Catherine can see the slight expression of tenderness, and the way he holds her mum, gently almost, tells her of his true feelings for the witch.

Even after twenty-five years.

So much between them and she knows she doesn't even understand or comprehend the least of it.

"How long have they been married?" Fred asks next to her and she is pulled back to her present.

Catherine glances once more at Fred, studying his face out of the corner of her eye, noticing that the couple of years since Hogwarts have been more than kind to him and the newest Quidditch star is looking very good indeed.

Though she would never say it out loud and glances away before she can notice any more of his attractive face, notice any more of the hair she wants to pull her hands through, the body that she wouldn't mind…

Her mind cuts her litany off harshly.

Answering. "Twenty years now they've been married."

Fred watches the witch and wizard dancing amongst their friends and family. "My mum says they were bonded before that."

Catherine nods. It is knowledge, well known knowledge, of the bond between her parents, though it has been almost ten years since the actual field of magic, the shadow magic, as her mum always called it, has all but faded away. The only ones who truly feel the shadow magic are those born directly after the war and, of course, the direct descendants: her, her two brothers, and her sister.

The four of them feel the shadow magic as part of their usual magic, distinctly different but the same in a way.

She answers him, wondering all the while why she is being civil to Fred Potter. "Yes, fifteen years before that, so thirty-five years all in all."

"Longer then my parents then."

There is a wistful tone there and Catherine can't help but turn slightly to look at Fred, tilting her head slightly so her curls move about her face and the light from the candles throw shadows and light over the contours of her face.

Fred finds the look, the slight tilt of her head, the light upon her cheekbones, across her lips, to be almost unbearably lovely and not for the first time he wonders where the girl he used to try to hex in Potions is. This girl, this woman, is entirely different from her.

Catherine shifts slightly under Fred's intense gaze, moving her eyes away from his brilliant green ones to glance over his shoulder, trying to come up with an excuse to move away from him. Wanting to catch the breath she suddenly is having a horrible time catching.

As if sensing her desire to move away from him, to find an excuse to get away from him, Fred feels something in his gut tighten and blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Would you like to dance?"

Catherine's gaze snaps back to his, one delicate eyebrow rising slightly. "Dance? Do you know how to dance, Potter?"

Fred feels a rush of irritation that has its roots in their past relationship and he all but scowls. "Yes, Malfoy, I can dance."

Whether it's because of his tone or because he has reverted to her last name as she had, a habit from their childhood, Catherine is amused and she smiles then, a light smile, not a smirk, not a grimace, but a slow lifting of her lips.

Something pulls in Fred's chest. Pulls hard.

"I would like that," she says, realising at the same time of what she just committed herself to. She has to swallow around a sudden lump in her throat when Fred holds out a hand then, offering, and with only a slight tremble, she takes it.

Her long delicate fingers intertwine easily, almost effortlessly, in his large calloused ones, both of them slightly startled at the contact, both of them even more startled when Fred easily moves into the dance, pulling her alongside him and for a moment, a briefest flash of time, their bodies melt against one another before the proper distance is placed between them.

But the both of them felt it and when Catherine looks up and catches Fred's gaze, something in her chest contracts at the desire and heat visible there.

A slight smile as she tries to gain her senses, admonishing herself for acting like a fool. Her, a Malfoy, a Slytherin, acting a fool in front of Fred Potter. It doesn't matter that he is handsome, that his hand is warm against her waist and calloused against her hand and that nerves of awareness are sparkling at his proximity. None of that matters because she still is who she is.

She smiles, a slight, almost seductive smile. "Perhaps," she says lightly, tilting her head once more, "We should start anew." A pause as the smile grows just slightly. "I should introduce myself; I am Catherine Malfoy."

Fred grins then, a goofy grin that causes one side of his mouth to curl up. "How do you do, Miss Malfoy? My name is Fred Potter."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter."

Energy sparkles between them.

Across the room Hermione Granger-Malfoy moves easily and without thought with her husband, one Draco Malfoy. She is entirely cocooned in his magic, in their magic, moving with him, no thought but the appreciation of his scent and closeness and ideas of what she can do to him once they manage to get away from the crowd.

But she is now, for going on nineteen years, a mother, and her motherly instincts pull up something, a swirl of shadow about her. She looks over as if pulled by an invisibly source to see a very surprising scene indeed.

"My love," she whispers, gaining Draco's attention.

Draco has also been thinking about what to with this witch in his arms after getting everyone out of his home, and it takes a moment for the lust filled fog to move from his brain before he can focus fully on his wife.

Hermione glances over his shoulder and then back to him. "Don't look now, my dear, but I do believe the world will stop on its axis shortly."

Draco raises one eyebrow, a similar look to the one on his daughter's face earlier, though he doesn't know it.

Hermione smiles slightly, an old smile, gentle, understanding, loving, and because Draco will never get used to such a look on his wife's face, he feels a warmth pool at the base of his spine, at the point on his chest.

She moves her gaze back over his shoulder and the smile grows slightly. Draco, effortlessly and without thought, twirls Hermione around him so he can view whatever it is that is going to make the world stop moving on its axis.

The world continues to move. Draco does not.

Seeing his baby girl, his little blond curly haired girl, in the arms of Fred Potter, and something moves red across his vision.

"Oh, honestly, Draco." Hermione sighs loudly, annoyed.

Draco looks back down at her. "What?"

Hermione rolls her eyes at him, which would be funny coming from an older witch, amusing Draco under normal times, but this is not normal times.

His baby is dancing with a Potter, of all things.

"It was only a matter of time, my love." Hermione says quietly, moving even closer to Draco, feeling his distress, and underneath it sadness, through their bond. Hermione continues. "They always reminded me of us, always arguing, never getting along. It was only a matter of time."

Draco scowls, finally looking away from Catherine back to his wife. "She is too young."

Hermione smirks. "Too young? Do you forget when you were that age?"

Another scowl. "No. And that is my point."

Hermione laughs then, a slight laugh, free, lovely in its sound and Draco can't help but respond to it, even as several people look on them with fondness.

They don't notice, caught up in their world, as usual, as has been the case for the last twenty years.

Draco shakes his head slightly, moving his witch into a complicated dance step before moving back into the slight sway they were in before. He finds her enchanting, pulling her close to him once more, the movement of the dance causing colour to form across her cheeks, her eyes bright as she looks up at him.

"They are just growing up," Draco tries to explain, still able to remember bringing Catherine home, the feelings of uncertainty, of panic almost, at being responsible for this wonderfully perfect being and the vow he made, looking over her crib the first night she was home, to never be his father, to show her love and acceptance no matter what she ended up being, or whom.

He'd made the same vow for the three that followed.

Hermione feels something tug in her chest and she rests her head against Draco's strong form for a moment, feeling the telltale burn of tears in her eyes. "They are," she says against the fabric of his robes.

She inhales deeply, his scent moving through her sense, calming her. She pulls back into his arms. "Can you believe Hannah is in her second year?"

Draco smiles, still remembering the shock both of them received to find that their youngest was sorted into Hufflepuff, though neither of them, really, were surprised.

Hannah, with her long brown hair and large brown eyes, is the picture of a Hufflepuff. Being the youngest she is shy, quiet, and though very smart, nowhere near the intellect of her brothers and sister. But above all, different from all them, is her goodness. It shines in her brown eyes and the radiant smile she partakes on anyone within her care.

Hermione and Draco glance over to where Hannah now sits with her Uncle Severus, talking to him quietly, the older man leaning down to hear the quieter tones. They both smile a slight smile, the irony of the relationship between the old Slytherin and their Hufflepuff daughter not lost on them.

Hermione shakes her head. "I don't know if that relationship is a good thing or not."

Draco smirks down at his wife. "Of course it is. The only reason she's survived her years with the twins is because of Severus giving her tidbits on how to protect herself and get back at them. You know she would have never managed otherwise."

Hermione sighs and shakes her head, looking around the room then for the twins; Steven and Luke, her gaze travelling over the myriad of guests until she finds them, together of course, white hair blazing in the torchlight, identical black robes hanging on their slender forms, identical grey eyes looking down at two very pretty witches.

They are the bane of her existence as she knows it, though she can't help but smile at the easily arrogant way they hold themselves, an echo of Draco's younger days. Younger times.

Though identical in looks, in thought even, the two of them are not entirely the same and Hermione can easily tell the difference between the two, one a Ravenclaw, the other a Slytherin.

Hermione sometimes wonders how she, the Gryffindor princess, managed to sire not one child sorted in Gryffindor, a fact that gives Harry no end of amusement, in addition to hours of contemplation by her husband. Several years ago he'd finally came to the conclusion that the Sorting Hat had, obviously, just messed up and Hermione had, that fateful day, supposed to have been sorted into Slytherin.

Hearing the theory always amuses Hermione and her usual reply to Draco's musings is a snide remark about her mud blood; a remark she makes just to see the sudden flush of colour cross Draco's face and the thinning of his lips in annoyance.

Hermione still, after so many years, enjoys annoying her husband.

Looking away from the twins and back at the man dancing with her daughter, he probably has some small amount of logic, though she would never say it aloud.

Hermione smiles gently up at him, tightening her hand about his, squeezing it slightly as the bond between them throbs and moves, surrounding them, cushioning them, keeping them safe, secure in what they are to one another.

Draco looks down at his wife of twenty years, sees the expression on her face and lowers his head slightly, a mere pressure of lips on hers, responding in like to the warmth flowing between them.

A pair of dark brown eyes and black eyes watch the exchange, an amused look across the older man's face, a slightly wistful look across the younger girl's.

"They really do love each other don't they, Uncle?" the girl says, leaning slightly against the straight form of her Uncle and favourite person.

Severus looks away from Draco and Hermione to glance down at their daughter, his Goddaughter. The irony of his relationship with this young girl is not lost on him any more than it was on her parents circled in one another's arms.

"They do; however, it was not always as it is now," he replies.

Hannah nods, a smile lifting about her lips, "Of course, I know the stories, Uncle Severus."

A dark eyebrow raised in amusement, "All of them?"

Hannah flushes slightly, a darkening of her skin along the line of her cheekbones, across the bridge of her nose. "Mostly." She pauses, slightly tilting her head, "What I haven't heard from you or Uncle Harry or Aunt Ginny, I have learned through magic."

Severus knows what the small girl is talking of, a secret between them, an ability that she has to use the shadow magic as empathy, a way of feeling others. It is perhaps, the reason the girl is one of the few in the world who love him unconditionally, without reserve, because she can, whereas others cannot, know precisely what is it he is feeling even when he is being thoroughly horrible. Darkness and being very alone for a very long time has made him even more of a difficult man through the years, if such a thing is possible, but Hannah, with her ability, sees past that into what he is, and loves him with all of her young heart because of that core of being. The goodness that lurks there.

Hannah turns her head to glance up at her Uncle, always feeling secure when next to him, feeling as if the people and their emotions lessen slightly, blocked at least partially, by the severe and total control of her Uncle. Protected by the love that the cold and distant man has for her, though he will never say it out loud, and she only knows because she can feel it, tendrils of it, about her person.

She continues to lean against her Uncle, liking the feel of his robes under her cheek.

Severus does not mind, not in the least, and several people in the room look on the sight in amusement, some even in amazement; the old professor, still dressed in black, a scowl still on his face, letting a young girl with eyes of hopeful youth lean against him in conformability.

Two set of eyes, identical in colour, look on the sight with something akin to trepidation.

"What do you think they are speaking of?" Steve asks his brother, turning away from witches in front of him, cutting one of them off mid-sentence.

Luke glances over at his Uncle and his sister, a narrowing of eyes and a slight smirk playing about his lips, giving indication to his thoughts. "I don't know, but I'm sure we can get it out of her."

Steve shakes his head, dislodging the hand of the witch trying to get his attention again, "Perhaps, but you know last time we did that Uncle tricked us into cleaning his potions lab without magic."

Luke remembers clearly, and scowls. "That was entirely unethical."

Steve is the Slytherin and he smiles at his brother. "Perhaps, but it was quite tricky though, a good show if I do say so, getting us in that way." A touch of awe and respect in his voice as he looks on his Uncle. "I suppose there is a reason why he was the Head of Slytherin."

Luke rolls his eyes, a clear habit from his mum, one of the few things about the boys that show Hermione's influence. "But without magic, that is unheard of. There are at least fifty-six different spells that we could have used to clean up the lab faster than by hand."

A wry look twisting about Steve's mouth, "I thinking cleaning wasn't the point, Luke."

Luke shakes his head, looking out over the room, grey eyes, pale locks, so very similar to his father's, scanning the crowd, automatically looking and categorizing, something both boys do without thought. Instinctive.

His gaze zeros and narrows on a pair of dancers.

"Bloody hell," he says, causing Steve to look away, once more, from the witch trying to gain his attention.

"What?" Steve asks, looking about the room, instantly alert.

And then he sees he it too.

His sister dancing with Potter.

Steve raises an eyebrow, "I thought she hated him?"

Luke nods, "I thought so too."

Steve's expression turns sly suddenly, a tilt of his lip, "They don't look like they are hating on one another now?"

Both boys idolize their elder sister, though neither of them would say it out loud. But to them, all growing up, she was their hero. Only three years older than the twins, she was the one that first taught them how to use magic. She was also the one who taught them how to get away with things, like getting past wards and spells to sneak out of the Manor. Though, having the smartest witch in history and the once Slytherin prince as parents made it nearly impossible to do so, and more often then naught they were caught and punished.

But without Catherine's help they probably would not have succeeded at all.

They adore their older sister as much as they enjoy terrorizing their younger, and to see her dancing closely, very closely, with Fred Potter makes both boys slightly uneasy, and slightly annoyed.

"Should we break it up?" Luke asks, fingering his wand.

Steve snorts, "Protect her virtue and all that." His tone is light, though his words hold a certain edge.

Luke nods.

"Neither of you will do a thing," another voice reprimands suddenly, behind them. A voice both boys know very well indeed.

They turn, in tandem, to look down on their mum.

Hermione glares at both boys in equal amounts, Draco standing slightly behind her so she can't see the amused look on his face, though his sons can.

Hermione taps her foot beneath her lavender robes. "You leave your sister and Fred Potter alone. I do not, and I repeat, do not want either of you putting your noses in where they do not belong."

Steve smiles at his mum, mischief moving across his features. "She's our sister, Mum, she is our business."

Hermione narrows her eyes, and Luke immediately tenses, knowing that look well, and being smarter than his brother, knows to heed that look.

"You will not, and if I so much as hear a whisper of your involvement of any sort, I will have your Uncle Severus put you to work in his potions lab again." A pause as she looks back and forth between her sons. "Without magic and in his company the entire time."

Both boys pale considerably.

But Hermione is not done, "And, you will do well to remember that I am a Professor at your school and I can give you detention with Filch."

Their faces pale even more.

"You wouldn't do that, Mum, that's abusing your power as a Professor." Steve says, instantly wanting to bite his tongue when Hermione's eyes narrow even more and he sees his father shake his head slightly at him in warning.

"You don't think I would?" she says, rising an eyebrow that has both Luke and Steve swallowing. "I have had to live with Slytherins for far too long to not take in a bit of their ways. You don't want to push me, Steven."

Luke and Steven, though their father's sons, clearly are, in the end, scared of their mum much more than their father, and seeing the look in her dark brown eyes and the way they almost shoot sparks, they know they had best leave it alone.

Both nod.

Hermione stares back and forth between the identical grey eyes, gauging them, using their shadow magic to see their true intent. None of her children can lie to her due to it.

Draco, who has been watching his wife thoroughly lash his sons with the harsh side of her tongue with amusement, places a hand on her arm.

"I think they get the point, love," looking back at Luke and Steven, "Right boys?"

"Absolutely," Luke, the smarter one, says immediately.

Steven nods in agreement.

Hermione glares once more at her boys and then the glare softens to a smile as she puts a hand to their cheeks, one soft hand on each cheek, gentle, causing both her boys to smile back.

"You two will be the death of me," she says quietly, softly.

The boys, underneath it all, love their mum and they lean into her hands for a moment before remembering they are sixteen and shouldn't be doing such things, then straighten and step back, putting on their Malfoy faces once more and turning away talk to the pretty witches behind them.

Hermione sees it and her smile grows, shaking her head and turning back to Draco. "There is too much of you in that pair."

Draco smirks. "That's probably why you love them so much."

Hermione rolls her eyes, "No, I love them because I have to."

Draco's smirk turns liquid then, one hand coming up and tucking that curl, always the same curl, behind her ear. "And me, do you love me because you have to?"

Hermione's breath catches at the look on his face, a look she has never gotten used to and will grow never tired of. Eyes, quicksilver, face soft, unguarded. She smiles up at him, "Of course," she says quietly, "There has never been any other way."

They meet each other for the kiss this time, white hair and brown curls intertwining, a sliding of lips, promises, thoughts, emotions, moving between them.

Several people witness the kiss and wonder at the passion there, so clearly underlined by tenderness. More than one pair of eyes tear at the sight, not knowing the full story, but understanding on some level, that on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary there is as much love between the two of them as there was years prior when Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy watched the day dawn on their first night together.


End file.
